Jar  tt 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


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BY 


NEIL     MUNRO 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

MCMVII 


Copyright,  1906,  1907,  by  NEIL  MUNKO. 

All  rights  reserved. 
,  Published  June,  1907. 


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2132474 


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CHAPTER  I 

THE  town's  bell  rang  through  the  dark  of  the  winter 
morning  with  queer  little  jolts  and  pauses,  as  if 
Wanton  Wully  Oliver,  the  ringer,  had  been  jovial  the 
night  before.  A  blithe  New-Year's-time  bell;  a  droll, 
daft,  scatter-brained  bell;  it  gave  no  horrid  alarms, 
no  solemn  reminders  that  commonly  toll  from  stee- 
ples and  make  good-fellows  melancholy  to  think  upon 
things  undone,  the  brevity  of  days  and  years,  the 
parting  of  good  company,  but  a  cheery  ditty — "boom, 
boom,  ding-a-dong  boom,  boom  ding,  hie,  ding-dong," 
infecting  whoever  heard  it  with  a  kind  of  foolish  gayety. 
The  burgh  town  turned  on  its  pillows,  drew  up  its 
feet  from  the  bed-bottles,  last  night  hot,  now  turned 
to  chilly  stone,  rubbed  its  eyes,  and  knew  by  that 
bell  it  was  the  daftest  of  the  daft  days  come.  It  cast 
a  merry  spell  on  the  community;  it  tickled  them  even 
in  their  cosey  beds.  "Wanton  Wully 's  on  the  ran- 
dan!" said  the  folk,  and  rose  quickly,  and  ran  to  pull 
aside  screens  and  blinds  to  look  out  in  the  dark  on 
window-ledges  cushioned  deep  in  snow.  The  children 
hugged  themselves  under  the  blankets,  and  told  one 
another  in  whispers  it  was  not  a  porridge  morning,  no, 

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nor  Sunday,  but  a  breakfast  of  shortbread,  ham,  and 
eggs;  and  behold!  a  beautiful,  loud  drum,  careless  as 
'twere  a  reveille  of  hot,  wild  youths,  began  to  beat  in 
a  distant  lane.  Behind  the  house  of  Dyce,  the  lawyer, 
a  cock  that  must  have  been  young  and  hearty  crew 
like  to  burst;  and  at  the  stables  of  the  post-office  the 
man  who  housed  his  horses  after  bringing  the  morning 
mail  through  night  and  storm  from  a  distant  railway 
station  sang  a  song: 

"'A  damsel  possessed  of  great  beauty 

Stood  near  by  her  own  father's  gate: 
The  gallant  hussars  were  on  duty; 

To  view  them  this  maiden  did  wait. 
Their  horses  were  capering  and  prancing, 

Their  accoutrements  shone  like  a  star; 
From  the  plains  they  were  quickly  advancing — 

She  espied  her  own  gallant  hussar.'" 

"Mercy  on  us,  six  o'clock!"  cried  Miss  Dyce,  with 
a  startled  jump  from  her  dreams  to  the  floor  of  her 
bedroom.  "Six  o'clock  on  the  New  Year's  morning, 
and  I'll  warrant  that  randy  Kate  is  sound  asleep  yet," 
she  said,  and  quickly  clad  herself  and  went  to  the 
head  of  the  stair  and  cried,  "Kate!  Kate!  are  ye  up 
yet,  Kate?  Are  ye  hearing  me,  Kate  MacNeill?" 

From  the  cavern  dark  of  the  lower  story  there  came 
back  no  answer. 

She  stood  with  a  curious,  twirly  wooden  candlestick 
in  her  hand  in  the  midst  of  a  house  that  was  dead 
dumb  and  desperate  dark  and  smelled  deliciously  of 
things  to  eat.  Even  herself,  who  had  been  at  the 
making  of  most  of  them  the  day  before,  and  had,  by 
God's  grace,  still  much  of  a  child's  appetite,  could  not 
but  sniff  with  a  childish  satisfaction  at  this  air  of  a 
celestial  grocery — of  plum-puddings  and  currant-buns, 


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apples  and  oranges,  cordials  and  spices,  toffee  and  the 
angelic  treacly  sweet  we  call  Black  Man — her  face  lit 
rosily  by  the  candle  low,  a  woman  small  and  soft 
and  sappy,  with  the  most  wanton  reddish  hair,  and  a 
briskness  of  body  that  showed  no  sign  as  yet  of  her 
accomplished  years.  What  they  were  I  will  never 
tell  you;  but  this  I'll  say,  that  even  if  they  had  been 
eighty  she  was  the  kind  to  cheerily  dance  a  quadrille. 
The  daft  bell,  so  plainly  in  the  jovial  mood  of  Wanton 
Wully  Oliver,  infected  her:  she  smiled  to  herself  in  a 
way  she  had  when  remembering  droll  things  or  just 
for  simple  jollity,  and  whoever  saw  Bell  Dyce  smile 
to  herself  had  never  the  least  doubt  after  that  she 
was  a  darling.  Over  the  tenements  of  the  town  the 
song  of  the  bell  went  rollicking,  and  in  its  hiccough- 
ing pauses  went  wonderfully  another  sound  far,  far 
removed  in  spirit  and  suggestion — the  clang  of  wild 
geese  calling:  the  "honk,  honk"  of  the  ganders  and 
the  challenge  of  their  ladies  come  down  adrift  in  the 
snow  from  the  bitter  north. 

But  there  was  no  answer  from  the  maid  in  the 
kitchen.  She  had  rolled  less  deliberately  than  was 
usual  from  her  blankets  to  the  summons  of  the  six- 
o'clock  bell,  and  already,  with  the  kitchen  window 
open,  her  bounteous  form  surged  over  the  two  sashes 
that  were  always  so  conveniently  low  and  handy  for 
a  gossip  with  any  friendly  passer-by  on  the  pavement. 
She  drank  the  air  of  the  clean,  chill  morning  dark,  a 
heady  thing  like  old  Tom  Watson's  autumn  ale,  full 
of  the  sentiment  of  the  daft  days.  She  tilted  an  ear 
to  catch  the  tune  of  the  mail-boy's  song  that  now  was 
echoing  mellow  from  the  cobwebbed  gloom  of  the 
stable  stalls,  and,  making  a  snowball  from  the  drift  of 
the  window-ledge,  she  threw  it,  womanwise,  aimlessly 

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into  the  street  with  a  pretence  at  combat.  The  chill 
of  the  snow  stung  sweet  in  the  hot  palm  of  her,  for 
she  was  young  and  strong. 

"Kate,  you  wretch!"  cried  a  voice  behind  her.  She 
drew  in  her  head,  to  find  her  mistress  in  the  kitchen 
with  the  candlestick  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  m'em,"  cried  the  maid,  no  way  abashed,  bang- 
ing up  the  window  and  hurriedly  crushing  her  more 
ample  parts  under  the  final  hooks  and  eyes  of  her 
morning  wrapper— "oh,  m'em,  what  a  start  you  gave 
me!  I'm  all  in  a  p-p-palpitation.  I  was  just  takin' 
one  mouthful  of  air  and  thinkin'  to  myself  yonder  in 
the  Gaelic  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  be  comin'  in 
and  risin'  right." 

"A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  Kate  MacNeill,"  said 
the  mistress,  taking  her  hand. 

"Just  that,  just  that!  ana  the  same  to  you  yourself, 
Miss  Dyce.  I'm  feeling  fine;  I'm  that  glad  with  every- 
thing," said  the  maid,  in  some  confusion  at  this  un- 
usual relation  with  her  mistress.  She  shook  the  prof- 
fered hand  rapidly  from  side  to  side  as  if  it  were  an 
egg-switch. 

"And  see  and  get  the  fires  on  quick  now,  like  a 
good  lass.  It  would  never  do  to  be  starting  the  New 
Year  late — it  would  be  unlucky.  I  was  crying  to  you 
yonder  from  the  stair-head,  and  wondering  if  you 
were  ill,  that  you  did  not  answer  me  so  quickly  as 
you  do  for  ordinar'." 

"111,  Miss  Dyce!"  cried  the  maid,  astounded.  "Do 
you  think  I'm  daft  to  be  ill  on  a  New  Year's  Day?" 

"After  yon — after  yon  shortbread  you  ate  yester- 
day I  would  not  have  wondered  much  if  you  were," 
said  Miss  Dyce,  shaking  her  head  solemnly.  "I'm  not 
complaining,  but,  dear  me!  it  was  an  awful  lump;  and 

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I  thought  it  would  be  a  bonny-like  thing,  too,  if  our 
first-foot  had  to  be  the  doctor." 

"Doctor!  I  declare  to  goodness  I  never  had  need 
of  a  doctor  to  me  since  Dr.  Macphee  in  Colonsay  put 
me  in  order  with  oil  and  things  after  I  had  the  measles," 
exclaimed  the  maid,  as  if  mankind  were  like  wag- 
at-the-wa'  clocks,  and  could  be  guaranteed  to  go  right 
for  years  if  you  blew  through  them  with  a  pair  of  bel- 
lows or  touched  their  works  with  an  oily  feather. 

"Never  mind  about  the  measles  just  now,  Kate," 
said  Miss  Dyce,  with  a  meaning  look  at  the  black-out 
fire. 

"Neither  I  was  mindin'  them,  m'em — I  don't  care 
a  spittle  for  them;  it's  so  long  ago  I  would  not  know 
them  if  I  saw  them;  I  was  just — " 

"But  get  your  fire  on.  You  know  we  have  a  lot  to 
do  to-day  to  get  everything  nice  and  ready  for  my 
nephew  who  comes  from  America  with  the  four-o'clock 
coach." 

"America!"  cried  the  maid,  dropping  a  saucepan 
lid  on  the  floor  in  her  astonishment.  "My  stars!  Did 
I  not  think  it  was  from  Chickagoo  ?" 

"And  Chicago  is  in  America,  Kate,"  said  her  mistress. 

"  Is  it  ?  is  it  ?  Mercy  on  me,  how  was  Kate  to  know  ? 
I  only  got  part  of  my  education — up  to  the  place 
where  you  carry  one  and  add  ten.  America!  Dear 
me,  just  fancy!  The  very  place  that  I'm  so  keen  to  go 
to.  If  I  had  the  money,  and  was  in  America — " 

It  was  a  familiar  theme;  Kate  had  not  got  fully 
started  on  it  when  her  mistress  fled  from  the  kitchen 
and  set  briskly  about  her  morning  affairs. 

And  gradually  the  household  of  Dyce,  the  lawyer, 
awoke  wholly  to  a  day  of  unaccustomed  stillness  and 
sound,  for  the  deep  snow  piled  in  the  street  and  hushed 

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the  traffic  of  wheel  and  hoof  and  shoe,  but  other- 
wise the  morning  was  cheerful  with  New-Year's-Day 
noise.  For  the  bell-ringing  of  Wanton  Wully  was 
scarcely  done,  died  down  in  a  kind  of  brazen  chuckle, 
and  the  "honk,  honk"  of  the  wild  geese  sped  sea- 
ward over  gardens  and  back  lanes — strange,  wild  music 
of  the  north,  far-fetched  and  undomestic — when  the 
fife  band  shrilly  tootled  through  the  town  to  the 
tune  of  "Hey,  Johnny  Cope,  are  Ye  Waukin'  Yet?" 
Ah,  they  were  the  proud,  proud  men,  their  heads  dizzy 
with  glory  and  last  night's  wine,  their  tread  on  air. 
John  Taggart  drummed — a  mighty  drummer,  drunk 
or  sober,  who  so  loved  his  instrument  he  sometimes 
went  to  bed  with  it  still  fastened  to  his  neck,  and 
banged  to-day  like  Banagher,  who  banged  furiously, 
never  minding  the  tune  much,  but  happy  if  so  be  that 
he  made  noise  enough.  And  the  fifers  were  not  long 
gone  down  the  town,  all  with  the  wrong  step  but 
Johnny  Vicar,  as  his  mother  thought,  when  the  snow 
was  trampled  under  the  feet  of  playing  children,  and 
women  ran  out  of  their  houses,  and  crossed  the  street, 
some  of  them,  I  declare,  to  kiss  each  other,  for  'tis  a 
fashion  lately  come,  and  most  genteel,  grown  wonder- 
fully common  in  Scotland.  Right  down  the  middle 
of  the  town,  with  two  small  flags  in  his  hat  and  holly 
in  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  went  old  Divine,  the  hawker, 
with  a  great  barrow  of  pure  gold,  crying:  "  Fine  Venetian 
oranges!  wha'll  buy  sweet  Venetian  oranges?  Nane 
o'  your  foreign  trash.  Oranges!  Oranges! — rale  New 
Year  oranges,  three  a  penny;  bloods,  a  bawbee  each!" 
The  shops  opened  just  for  an  hour  for  fear  anybody 
might  want  anything,  and  many  there  were,  you  may 
be  sure,  who  did,  for  they  had  eaten  and  drunken 
everything  provided  the  night  before — which  we  call 

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hogmanay  —  and  now  there  were  currant  -  loaves  and 
sweety  biscuits  to  buy;  shortcake,  sugar,  and  lemons, 
ginger  cordial  for  the  boys  and  girls  and  United 
Presbyterians,  boiled  ham  for  country  cousins  who 
might  come  unexpected,  and  P.  &  A.  MacGlashan's 
threepenny  mutton-pies  (twopence  if  you  brought  the 
ashet  back),  ordinarily  only  to  be  had  on  fair-days 
and  on  Saturdays,  and  far  renowned  for  value. 

Miss  Minto's  Millinery  and  Manteau  Emporium  was 
discovered  at  daylight  to  have  magically  outlined  its 
doors  and  windows  during  the  night  with  garlands 
and  festoons  of  spruce  and  holly,  whereon  the  white 
rose  bloomed  in  snow;  and  Miss  Minto  herself,  in  a 
splendid  crimson  cloak  down  to  the  heels  and  cheeks 
like  cherries,  was  standing  with  mittens  and  her  five 
finger- rings  on,  in  the  middle  door,  saying  in  beautiful, 
gentle  English,  "A  happy  New  Year"  to  every  one 
who  passed — even  to  George  Jordon,  the  common  cow- 
herd, who  was  always  a  little  funny  in  his  intellects, 
and,  because  his  trousers  were  bell-mouthed  and  hid 
his  feet,  could  never  remember  whether  he  was  going 
to  his  work  or  coming  from  it,  unless  he  consulted 
the  school-master.  "The  same  to  you,  m'em,  excuse 
my  hands,"  said  poor  George,  just  touching  the  tips 
of  her  fingers.  Then,  because  he  had  been  stopped 
and  slewed  a  little  from  his  course,  he  just  went  back 
the  way  he  had  come. 

Too  late  got  up  the  red-faced  sun,  too  late  to  laugh 
at  Wanton  Wully's  jovial  bell,  too  late  for  Taggart's 
mighty  drumming,  but  a  jolly  winter  sun — 'twas  all 
that  was  wanted  among  the  chimneys  to  make  the  day 
complete. 

First  of  all  to  rise  in  Dyce's  house,  after  the  mistress 
and  the  maid,  was  the  master,  Daniel  Dyce  himself. 

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And  now  I  will  tell  you  all  about  Daniel  Dyce :  it 
is  that  behind  his  back  he  was  known  as  Cheery  Dan. 

"Your  bath  is  ready,  Dan,"  his  sister  had  cried,  and 
he  rose  and  went  with  chittering  teeth  to  it,  looked  at 
it  a  moment,  and  put  a  hand  in  the  water.  It  was  as 
cold  as  ice,  because  that  water,  drinking  which  men 
never  age,  comes  from  high  mountain  bens. 

"That  for  ye  to-day!"  said  he  to  the  bath,  snapping 
his  fingers.  "I'll  see  ye  far  enough  first!"  And  con- 
tented himself  with  a  slighter  wash  than  usual,  and 
shaving.  As  he  shaved  he  hummed  all  the  time,  as 
was  his  habit,  an  ancient  air  of  his  boyhood;  to-day 
it  was 

"'Star  of  Peace,  to  wanderers  weary,'" 

with  not  much  tone  but  a  great  conviction  —  a  tall, 
lean,  clean-shaven  man  of  over  fifty,  with  a  fine,  long 
nose,  a  ruddy  cheek,  keen,  gray  eyes,  and  plenty  of  room 
in  his  clothes,  the  pockets  of  him  so  large  and  open  it 
was  no  wonder  so  many  people  tried,  as  it  were,  to 
put  their  hands  into  them.  And  when  he  was  dressed 
he  did  a  droll  thing,  for  from  one  of  his  pockets  he 
took  what  hereabouts  we  call  a  pea- sling,  that  to  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  a  catapult,  and  having  shut  one 
eye,  and  aimed  with  the  weapon,  and  snapped  the 
rubber  several  times  with  amazing  gravity,  he  went 
up-stairs  into  an  attic  and  laid  it  on  a  table  at  the 
window  with  a  pencilled  note,  in  which  he  wrote: 

"A  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  PRESENT 
FOR  A  GOOD  BOY, 

FROM 

AN  UNCLE  WHO  DOES  NOT  LIKE  CATS  " 


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He  looked  round  the  little  room  that  seemed  very 
bright  and  cheerful,  for  its  window  gazed  over  the 
garden  to  the  east  and  to  the  valley  where  was  seen 
the  King's  highway.  "Wonderful!  wonderful!"  he 
said  to  himself.  "They  have  made  an  extraordinary 
job  of  it.  Very  nice,  indeed,  but  just  a  shade  lady- 
like. A  stirring  boy  would  prefer  fewer  fallals." 

There  was  little,  indeed,  to  suggest  the  occupation 
of  a  stirring  boy  in  that  attic,  with  its  draped  dressing- 
table  in  lilac  print,  its  looking-glass  flounced  in  muslin 
and  pink  lover's-knots,  its  bower-like  bed  canopied 
and  curtained  with  green  lawn,  its  shy  scent  of  pot- 
pourri and  lavender.  A  framed  text  in  crimson  wools, 
the  work  of  Bell  Dyce  when  she  was  in  Miss  Mushet's 
seminary,  hung  over  the  mantel-piece  enjoining  all  be- 
holders to 

"  WATCH  AND  PRAY  " 

Mr.  Dyce  put  both  hands  into  his  trousers-pockets, 
bent  a  little,  and  heaved  in  a  sort  of  chirruping  laugh- 
ter. "Man's  whole  duty,  according  to  Bell  Dyce," 
he  said,  "'Watch  and  Pray';  but  they  do  not  need 
to  have  the  lesson  before  them  continually  yonder 
in  Chicago,  I'll  warrant.  Yon's  the  place  for  watch- 
ing, by  all  accounts,  however  it  may  be  about  the 
prayer.  'Watch  and  Pray'  —  h'm !  It  should  be 
Watch  or  Pray — it  clearly  cannot  be  both  at  once 
with  the  world  the  way  it  is;  you  might  as  well  expect 
a  man  to  eat  pease -meal  and  whistle  strathspeys  at 
the  same  time." 

He  was  humming  "Star  of  Peace" — for  the  tune 
he  started  the  morning  with  usually  lasted  him  all 
day  —  and  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  con- 
templating with  amusement  the  lady -like  adornment 

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of  the  room  prepared  for  his  Chicago  nephew,  when 
a  light  step  fell  on  the  attic  stairs,  and  a  woman's 
voice  cried:  "Dan!  Dan  Dyce!  Coo-ee!" 

He  did  not  answer. 

She  cried  again  after  coming  up  a  step  or  two  more, 
but  still  he  did  not  answer.  He  slid  behind  one  of 
the  bed-curtains. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALISON  DYCE  came  lightly  up  the  rest  of  the  stair, 
whistling  blithely,  in  spite  of  her  sister  Bell's  old 
notion  that  whistling  women  and  crowing  hens  are 
never  canny.  She  swept  into  the  room.  People  in 
the  town — which  has  a  forest  of  wood  and  deer  behind 
it — used  to  say  she  had  the  tread  and  carriage  of  a 
young  wild  roe,  and  I  can  well  assure  you  she  was  the 
girl  to  walk  with  on  a  winter  day!  She  had  in  her 
hand  a  book  of  poems  called  The  Golden  Treasury 
and  a  spray  of  the  herb  called  Honesty,  that  thrives 
in  poor  men's  gardens.  Having  laid  them  down  on 
the  table  without  noticing  her  brother's  extraordinary 
Present  for  a  Good  Boy,  she  turned  about  and  fondled 
things.  She  smoothed  the  bedclothes  as  if  they  cov- 
ered a  child,  she  patted  the  chair-backs  with  an  air  of 
benediction,  she  took  cushions  to  her  breast  like  one 
that  cuddled  them,  and  when  she  touched  the  mantel- 
piece ornaments  they  could  not  help  it  but  must  start 
to  chime.  It  was  always  a  joy  to  see  Alison  Dyce 
redding -up,  as  we  say,  though  in  housewifery,  like 
sewing,  knitting,  and  cooking,  she  was  only  a  poor 
second  to  her  sister  Bell.  She  tried,  from  duty,  to 
like  these  occupations,  but  oh,  dear!  the  task  was  be- 
yond her:  whatever  she  had  learned  from  her  school- 
ing in  Edinburgh  and  Brussels,  it  was  not  the  darning 
of  hose  and  the  covering  of  rhubarb -tarts. 

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Her  gift,  said  Bell,  was  management. 

Tripping  round  the  little  attic,  she  came  back  by- 
and-by  to  the  table  at  the  window  to  take  one  last 
wee  glimpse  inside  The  Golden  Treasury,  that  was  her 
own  delight  and  her  notion  of  happy  half -hours  for 
the  ideal  boy,  and  her  eye  fell  for  the  first  time  on  the 
pea-sling  and  the  note  beside  it. 

She  read,  and  laughed,  and  upon  my  word,  if  laugh- 
ter like  Ailie  Dyce's  could  be  bought  in  perforated 
rolls,  there  would  be  no  demand  for  Chopin  and 
Schumann  on  the  pianolas.  It  was  a  laugh  that  even 
her  brother  could  not  resist:  a  paroxysm  of  coughing 
burst  from  behind  the  curtains,  and  he  came  out  be- 
side her  chuckling. 

"I  reckoned  without  my  hoast,"  said  he,  gasping. 

"I  was  sure  you  were  up-stairs,"  said  Alison.  "You 
silly  man!  Upon  my  word!  Where's  your  dignity, 
Mr.  Dyce?" 

Dan  Dyce  stood  for  a  second  a  little  bit  abashed, 
rubbing  his  chin  and  blinking  his  eyes  as  if  their  fun 
was  a  thing  to  be  kept  from  brimming  over.  "I'm  a 
great  wag!"  said  he.  "If  it's  dignity  you're  after, 
just  look  at  my  velvet  coat!"  and  so  saying  he  caught 
the  ends  of  his  coat  skirts  with  his  fingers,  held  them 
out  at  arm's-length,  and  turned  round  as  he  might  do 
at  a  fit-on  in  his  tailor's,  laughing  till  his  hoast  came 
on  again.  "Dignity,  quo'  she,  just  look  at  my  velvet 
coat!" 

"Dan!  Dan!  will  you  never  be  wise?"  said  Ailie 
Dyce,  a  humorsome  demoiselle  herself,  if  you  believe  me. 

"Not  if  I  keep  my  health,"  said  he.  "You  have 
made  a  bonny-like  show  of  the  old  garret,  between 
the  two  of  you.  It's  as  smart  as  a  lass  at  her  first 
ball." 

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"I  think  it's  very  nice;  at  least  it  might  be  worse," 
interrupted  Alison,  defensively,  glancing  round  with 
satisfaction  and  an  eye  to  the  hang  of  the  frame  round 
"Watch  and  Pray."  Bell's  wool-work  never  agreed 
with  her  notions,  but,  as  she  knew  that  her  tarts  never 
agreed  with  Bell,  she  kept,  on  that  point,  aye  discreetly 
dumb. 

" Poor  little  Chicago!"  said  her  brother.  "I'm  vexed 
for  the  wee  fellow.  Print  chintz,  or  chint  prints,  or 
whatever  it  is;  sampler  texts,  and  scent,  and  poetry 
books — what  in  the  world  is  the  boy  to  break?" 

"Oh,  you  have  seen  to  that  department,  Dan!" 
said  Ailie,  taking  the  pea -sling  again  in  her  hand. 
'"A  New  Year's  Day  Present  for  a  Good  Boy  fiom 
an  Uncle  who  does  not  like  Cats.'  I  declare  that  is 
a  delightful  way  of  making  the  child  feel  quite  at 
home  at  once." 

"Tuts!  Tis  just  a  diversion.  I  know  it  '11  cheer 
him  wonderfully  to  find  at  the  start  that  if  there's  no 
young  folk  in  the  house  there's  some  of  the  eternal 
Prank.  I  suppose  there  are  cats  in  Chicago.  He 
cannot  expect  us  to  provide  him  with  pigs,  which 
are  the  usual  domestic  pets  there,  I  believe.  You 
let  my  pea-sling  alone,  Ailie;  you'll  find  it  will  please 
him  more  than  all  the  poetry  and  pink  bows.  I  was 
once  a  boy  myself,  and  I  know." 

"You  were  never  anything  else,"  said  Alison — "and 
never  will  be  anything  else.  It  is  a  pity  to  let  the 
child  see  at  the  very  start  what  an  irresponsible  person 
his  uncle  is;  and,  besides,  it's  cruel  to  throw  stones  at 
cats." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all!"  said  her  brother,  briskly, 
with  his  head  quizzically  to  the  side  a  little,  in  a  way 
he  had  when  debating  in  the  court.  "I  have  been 

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throwing  stones  for  twenty  years  at  those  cats  of 
Rodger's  that  live  in  our  garden,  and  I  never  hit  one 
yet.  They're  all  about  six  inches  too  short  for  genu- 
ine sport.  If  cats  were  dachshund  dogs,  end  I  wasn't 
so  fond  of  dogs,  I  would  be  deadly.  But  my  ado  with 
cats  is  just  one  of  the  manly  old  British  sports,  like 
trout-fishing  and  curling.  You  take  your  fun  out  in 
anticipation,  and  the  only  difference  is  you  never  need 
to  carry  a  flask.  Still,  I'm  not  without  hope  that  my 
nephew  from  Chicago  may  have  a  better  aim  than  I 
have." 

"You  are  an  old — an  old  goose,  Dan  Dyce,  and  a 
happy  New  Year  to  you!"  said  his  sister,  putting 
her  arms  suddenly  round  his  neck  and  kissing  him. 

"Tuts!  the  coming  of  that  child's  ta'en  your  head," 
said  the  brother,  reddening,  for  sisters  never  kiss  their 
own  brothers  in  our  part  —  it's  so  sentimental,  it's  so 
like  the  penny  stories.  "A  good  New  Year  to  you, 
Ailie,"  and  "Tuts!"  he  said  again,  looking  quite  upset, 
till  Ailie  laughed  and  put  her  arm  through  his  and  drew 
him  down -stairs  to  the  breakfast  to  which  she  had 
come  to  summon  him. 

The  Chicago  child's  bedroom,  left  to  itself,  chilly 
a  bit  like  Highland  weather,  but  honest  and  clean, 
looked  more  like  a  bower  than  ever:  the  morning  sun, 
peeping  over  garden  trees  and  the  chimneys  of  the 
lanes,  gazed  particularly  on  the  table  where  the  pea- 
sling  and  the  poetry  book  lay  together. 

And  now  the  town  was  thronged  like  a  fair-day, 
with  such  stirring  things  happening  every  moment 
in  the  street  that  the  servant,  Kate,  had  a  constant  head 
out  at  the  window,  "putting  by  the  time,"  as  she 
explained  to  the  passing  inquirer,  "till  the  mustress 
would  be  ready  for  the  breakfast."  That  was  Kate 

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— she  had  come  from  an  island  where  they  make  the 
most  of  everything  that  may  be  news,  even  if  it's  only 
brandy-sauce  to  pudding  at  the  minister's;  and  Miss 
Dyce  could  not  start  cutting  a  new  bodice  or  sewing 
a  button  on  her  brother's  trousers  but  the  maid  billow- 
ed out  upon  the  window-sash  to  tell  the  tidings  to  the 
first  of  her  sex  that  passed. 

Over  the  trodden  snow  she  saw  the  people  from  the 
country  crowd  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  looking  pretty 
early  in  the  day  for  gayety,  all  with  scent  on  their 
handkerchiefs  (which  is  the  odor  of  festive  days  for 
a  hundred  miles  round  burgh  towns) ;  and  town  people, 
less  splendid  in  attire,  as  folk  that  know  the  difference 
between  a  holiday  and  a  Sabbath,  and  leave  their 
religious  hard  hats  at  home  on  a  New  Year's  Day; 
children,  too,  replete  with  bun  already,  and  all  succulent 
with  the  juice  of  Divine's  oranges.  She  heard  the 
bell  begin  to  peal  again,  for  Wully  Oliver — fie  on  Wully 
Oliver! — had  been  met  by  some  boys  who  told  him  the 
six-o'clock  bell  was  not  yet  rung,  and  sent  him  back  to 
perform  an  office  he  had  done  with  hours  before.  He 
went  to  his  bell  dubiously,  something  in  the  dizzy 
abyss  he  called  his  mind  that  half  convinced  him  he 
had  rung  it  already. 

"Let  me  pause  and  consider,"  he  said  once  or  twice 
when  being  urged  to  the  rope,  scratching  the  hair 
behind  his  ears  with  both  hands,  his  gesture  of  re- 
flection. "Was  there  no'  a  bairn — an  auld-fashioned 
bairn — helped  to  ca'  the  bell  already,  and  wanted  to 
gie  me  money  for  the  chance?  It  runs  in  my  mind 
there  was  a  bairn,  and  that  she  had  us  aye  boil-boiling 
away  at  eggs,  but  maybe  I'm  wrong,  for  I'll  admit  I 
had  a  dram  or  two  and  lost  the  place.  I  don't  believe 
in  dram-dram-dramming,  but  I  aye  say  if  you  take  a 

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dram,  take  it  in  the  morning  and  you  get  the  good  of  it 
all  day.  It's  a  tip  I  learned  in  the  Crimea."  But  at 
last  they  convinced  him  the  bairn  was  just  imagina- 
tion, and  Wanton  Wully  Oliver  spat  on  his  hands 
and  grasped  the  rope,  and  so  it  happened  that  the 
morning  bell  on  the  New  Year's  Day  on  which  my  story 
opens  was  twice  rung. 

The  Dyce  handmaid  heard  it  pealing  as  she  hung 
over  the  window-sash  with  her  cap  awry  on  her  head. 
She  heard  from  every  quarter  —  from  lanes,  closes, 
tavern-rooms,  high  attics,  and  back  yards — fifes  play- 
ing; it  was  as  if  she  leaned  over  a  magic  grove  of  great 
big  birds,  each  singing  its  own  song — "Come  to  the 
Bower,"  or  "Moneymusk,"  or  "The  Girl  I  Left  Behind 
Me,"  noble  airs  wherein  the  captain  of  the  band  looked 
for  a  certain  perfection  from  his  musicians  before  they 
marched  out  again  at  mid-day.  "For,"  said  he  often 
in  rehearsals,  "anything  will  do  in  the  way  of  a  tune 
in  the  dark,  my  sunny  boys,  but  it  must  be  the  tiptop 
of  skill,  and  no  discordancy,  when  the  eyes  of  the 
world  are  on  us.  One  turn  more  at  'Moneymusk,' 
sunny  boys,  and  then  we'll  have  a  skelp  at  yon  tune  of 
my  own  composure." 

Besides  the  sound  of  the  bell  and  the  universal 
practice  of  the  fifes  there  were  loud  vocalists  at  the 
Cross,  and  such  laughter  in  the  street  that  Kate  was 
in  an  ecstasy.  Once,  uplifted  beyond  all  private  de- 
corum, she  kilted  her  gown  and  gave  a  step  of  a  reel 
in  her  kitchen  solitude. 

"Isn't  it  cheery,  the  noise!"  she  exclaimed,  de- 
lightedly, to  the  letter-carrier  who  came  to  the  window 
with  the  morning's  letters.  "Oh,  I  am  feeling  beau- 
tiful! It  is — it  is — it  is  just  like  being  inside  a  pair  of 
bagpipes." 

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He  was  a  man  who  roared,  the  postman,  being  used 
to  bawling  up  long  common-stairs  in  the  tenements 
for  the  people  to  come  down  to  the  foot  themselves 
for  their  letters — a  man  with  one  roguish  eye  for  the 
maiden  and  another  at  random.  Passing  in  the  letters 
one  by  one,  he  said  in  tones  that  on  a  quieter  day 
might  be  heard  half  up  the  street,  "Nothing  for  you, 
yourself,  personally,  Kate,  but  maybe  there'll  be  one 
to-morrow.  Three  big  blue  anes  and  seven  wee  anes 
for  the  man  o'  business  himsel',  twa  for  Miss  Ailie 
(she's  the  wonderfu'  correspondent!),  and  ane  for  Miss 
Dyce,  wi'  the  smell  o'  scented  perfume  on't — that  '11 
be  frae  the  Miss  Birds  o'  Edinburgh.  And  I  near  forgot 
— here's  a  post-card  for  Miss  Dyce  :  hearken  to  this : 

'"Child  arrived  Liverpool  yesterday;  left  this  morning  for 
Scotland.  Quite  safe  to  go  alone,  charge  of  conductor.  Pip, 
pip!  MOLYNEUX.' 

"Whatna  child  is  it,  Kate?" 

"'Pip,  pip!'  What  in  the  world's  'Pip,  pip?' 
The  child  is  Brother  William's  child,  to  be  sure,"  said 
Kate,  who  always  referred  to  the  Dyce  relations  as  if 
they  were  her  own.  "You  have  heard  of  Brother 
William?" 

"Him  that  was  married  to  the  play -actress  and 
never  wrote  home?"  shouted  the  letter-carrier.  "He 
went  away  before  my  time.  Go  on;  quick,  for  I'm 
in  a  desperate  hurry  this  mornin'." 

"Well,  he  died  abroad  in  Chickagoo  —  God  have 
mercy  on  him  dying  so  far  away  from  home,  and  him 
without  a  word  of  Gaelic  in  his  head ! — and  a  friend  o' 
his  father's  bringing  the  boy  home  to  his  aunties." 

"Where  in  the  world's  Chickagoo?"  bellowed  the 
postman. 

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"In  America,  of  course — where  else  would  it  be  but 
in  America?"  said  Kate,  contemptuously.  "Where  is 
your  education  not  to  know  that  Chickagoo  is  in 
America,  where  the  servant-maids  have  a  pound  a  week 
of  wages,  and  learn  the  piano,  and  can  get  married 
when  they  like  quite  easy?" 

"Bless  me!  do  you  say  so?"  cried  the  postman,  in 
amazement,  and  not  without  a  pang  of  jealousy. 

"Yes,  I  say  so!"  said  Kate,  in  the  snappish  style  she 
often  showed  to  the  letter-carrier.  "And  the  child  is 
coming  this  very  day  with  the  coach-and-twice  from 
Maryfield  railway  station — oh,  them  trains!  them  trains! 
with  their  accidents;  my  heart  is  in  my  mouth  to  think 
of  a  child  in  them.  Will  you  not  come  round  to  the 
back  and  get  the  mustress's  New  Year  dram?  She  is 
going  to  give  a  New  Year  dram  to  every  man  that  calls 
on  business  this  day.  But  I  will  not  let  you  in,  for  it 
is  in  my  mind  that  you  would  not  be  a  lucky  first-foot." 

"Much  obleeged,"  said  the  postman,  "but  ye  needna 
be  feared.  I'm  not  allowed  to  go  dramming  at  my 
duty.  It's  offeecial,  and  I  canna  help  it.  If  it  was  not 
offeecial,  there's  few  letter-carriers  that  wouldna  need 
to  hae  iron  hoops  on  their  heids  to  keep  their  brains 
from  burstin'  on  the  day  efter  New  Year." 

Kate  heard  a  voice  behind  her,  and  pulled  her  head 
in  hurriedly  with  a  gasp,  and  a  cry  of  "Mercy,  the 
start  I  got!"  while  the  postman  fled  on  his  rounds. 
Miss  Dyce  stood  behind,  in  the  kitchen,  indignant. 

"You  are  a  perfect  heartbreak,  Kate,"  said  the  mis- 
tress. "I  have  rung  for  breakfast  twice  and  you 
never  heard  me,  with  your  clattering  out  there  to  the 
letter-carrier.  It's  a  pity  you  cannot  marry  the  glee 
party,  as  Mr.  Dyce  calls  him,  and  be  done  with  it." 

"Me  marry  him!"  cried  the  maid,  indignantly.  "I 

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think  I  see  myself  marryin'  a  man  like  yon,  and  his 
eyes  not  neighbors." 

"That's  a  trifle  in  a  husband  if  his  heart  is  good; 
the  letter-carrier's  eyes  may — may  skew  a  little,  but 
it's  not  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  the  lookout  he 
has  to  keep  on  all  sides  of  him  to  keep  out  of  reach  of 
every  trollop  in  the  town  who  wants  to  marry  him." 

And  leaving  Kate  speechless  at  this  accusation,  the 
mistress  of  the  house  took  the  letters  from  her  hands 
and  went  to  the  breakfast-table  with  them. 

She  had  read  the  contents  of  the  post-card  before 
she  reached  the  parlor;  its  news  dismayed  her. 

"Just  imagine!"  she  cried.  "Here's  that  bairn  on 
his  way  from  Liverpool  his  lee-lone,  and  not  a  body 
with  him!" 

"What!  what!"  cried  Mr.  Dyce,  whose  eyes  had  been 
shut  to  say  the  grace.  "Isn't  that  actor-fellow,  Moly- 
neux,  coming  with  him,  as  he  promised?" 

Miss  Dyce  sunk  in  a  chair  and  burst  into  tears,  crush- 
ing the  post-card  in  her  hand. 

"What  does  he  say?"  demanded  her  brother. 

"He  says — he  says — oh,  dear  me! — he  says,  ' 
pip!' "  quoth  the  weeping  sister. 


CHAPTER  III 

I  MISDOUBTED  Mr.  Molyneux  from  the  very  first,' 
said  Ailie,  turning  as  white  as  a  clout.  "From  all 
his  post-cards  he  was  plainly  too  casual.  Stop  it, 
Bell,  my  dear — have  sense;  the  child's  in  a  Christian 
land,  and  in  the  care  of  somebody  who  is  probably  more 
dependable  than  this  delightful  Molyneux." 

Mr.  Dyce  took  out  an  old,  thick,  silver  verge.  "Nine 
o'clock,"  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  its  creamy  coun- 
tenance. "Molyneux's  consignment  is  making  his  first 
acquaintance  with  Scottish  scenery  and  finding  him- 
self, I  hope,  amused  at  the  Edinburgh  accent.  He'll 
arrive  at  Mary  field — poor,  wee  smout ! — at  three ;  if  I 
drive  over  at  twelve,  I'll  be  in  time  to  meet  him.  Tuts, 
Bell,  give  over;  he's  a  ten-year-old  and  a  Dyce  at  that 
— there's  not  the  slightest  fear  of  him." 

"Ten  years  old,  and  in  a  foreign  country — if  you 
can  call  Scotland  a  foreign  country,"  cried  Miss  Dyce, 
still  sobbing  with  anger  and  grief.  "Oh,  the  cat-witted 
scamp,  that  Molyneux — if  I  had  him  here!" 

The  dining-room  door  opened  and  let  in  a  yawn- 
ing dog  of  most  plebeian  aspect,  longest  lie-abed  of 
the  household,  the  clamor  of  the  street,  and  the  sound 
of  sizzling  bacon,  followed  by  Kate's  majestic  form  at 
a  stately  glide,  because  she  had  on  her  new  stiff  lilac 
print  that  was  worn  for  breakfast  only  on  Sundays  and 
holidays.  "You  would  think  I  was  never  coming,"  she 

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said,  genially,  and  smiled  widely  as  she  put  the  tray 
on  the  sideboard.  This  that  I  show  you,  I  fear,  is  a 
beggarly  household,  absurdly  free  from  ceremony.  Mr. 
Dyce  looked  at  his  sister  Ailie  and  smiled ,  Ailie  looked 
at  her  sister  Bell  and  smiled.  Bell  took  a  hair-pin  or 
two  out  of  their  places  and  seemed  to  stab  herself 
with  them  viciously  in  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  smiled 
not  at  all  nor  said  anything,  for  she  was  furious  with 
Molyneux,  whom  she  could  see  in  her  mind's  eye — an 
ugly,  tippling,  frowzy-looking  person  with  badly  pol- 
ished boots,  an  impression  that  would  have  greatly 
amused  Mrs.  Molyneux,  who,  not  without  reason,  count- 
ed her  Jim  the  handsomest  man  and  the  best  dressed 
in  the  profession  in  all  Chicago. 

"I'm  long  of  coming,  like  Royal  Charlie,"  Kate 
proceeded,  as  she  passed  the  ashets  on  to  Miss  Dyce; 
"but,  oh  me!  New  Year's  Day  here  is  no'  like  New 
Year's  Day  in  the  bonny  isle  of  Colonsay." 

Mr.  Dyce  said  grace  and  abstractedly  helped  him- 
self alternately  from  both  ends  of  a  new  roll  of  pow- 
dered butter.  "Dan,  dear,  don't  take  the  butter  from 
both  ends  —  it  spoils  the  look,"  said  Bell.  "Tuts!" 
said  he.  "What's  the  odds?  There'll  be  no  ends  at 
all  when  we're  done  with  it.  I'm  utterly  regardless  of 
the  symmetrical  and  the  beautiful  this  morning.  I'm 
savage  to  think  of  that  man  Molyneux.  If  I  was  not  a 
man  of  peace  I  would  be  wanting  to  wring  Mr.  Moly- 
neux's  neck,"  and  he  twisted  his  morning  roll  in  halves 
with  ferocious  hands. 

"Dan!"  said  Ailie,  shocked.  "I  never  heard  you 
say  anything  so  blood  -  thirsty  in  all  my  life  before. 
I  would  never  have  thought  it  of  you." 

"Maybe  not,"  he  said.  "There's  many  things  about 
me  you  never  suspected.  You  women  are  always  un- 

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der  delusions  about  the  men — about  the  men — well, 
dash  it!  about  the  men  you  like.  I  know  myself  so 
well  that  there  is  no  sin,  short  of  one  or  two  not  so 
accounted,  that  I  cannot  think  myself  capable  of.  I 
believe  I  might  be  forced  into  robbing  a  kirk  if  I  had 
no  money  and  was  as  hungry  as  I  was  this  morning 
before  that  post-card  came  to  ruin  a  remarkably  fine 
New-Year's-Day  appetite,  or  even  into  murdering  a 
man  like  Molyneux  who  failed  in  the  simplest  duties  no 
man  should  neglect." 

"I  hope  and  trust,"  said  Bell,  still  nervous,  "that 
he  is  a  wiselike  boy  with  a  proper  upbringing,  who  will 
not  be  frightened  at  travelling  and  make  no  mistakes 
about  the  train.  If  he  was  a  Scotch  laddie,  with  the 
fear  of  God  in  him,  I  would  not  be  a  bit  put  about  for 
him,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  be  asking,  asking,  and  if 
he  felt  frightened  he  would  just  start  and  eat  some- 
thing, like  a  Christian.  But  this  poor  child  has  no 
advantages — just  American!" 

Ailie  sat  back  in  her  chair,  with  her  teacup  in  her 
hand,  and  laughed,  and  Kate  laughed  quietly — though 
it  beat  her  to  see  where  the  fun  was;  and  the  dog 
laughed  likewise — at  least  it  wagged  its  tail  and  twisted 
its  body  and  made  such  extraordinary  sounds  in  its 
throat  that  you  could  say  it  was  laughing. 

"Tuts!  you  are  the  droll  woman,  Bel!,"  said  Mr. 
Dyce,  blinking  at  her.  "You  have  the  daftest  ideas 
of  some  things.  For  a  woman  who  spent  so  long  a 
time  in  Miss  Mushet's  seminary,  and  reads  so  much 
at  the  newspapers,  I  wonder  at  you." 

"Of  course  his  father  was  Scotch,  that's  one  mercy," 
added  Bell,  not  a  bit  annoyed  at  the  reception  of  her 
pious  opinions. 

"That,  is  always  something  to  be  going  on  with," 

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said  Mr.  Dyce,  mockingly.  "I  hope  he'll  make  the 
most  of  that  great  start  in  life  and  fortune.  It's  as 
good  as  money  in  his  pocket." 

Bell  put  up  a  tiny  hand  and  pushed  a  stray  curl 
(for  she  had  a  rebel  chevelure)  behind  her  ear,  and 
smiled  in  spite  of  her  anxiety  about  the  coming  nephew. 
"You  may  laugh  if  you  like,  Dan,"  she  said,  emphat- 
ically, perking  with  her  head  across  the  table  at  him, 
"but  I'm  proud,  I'm  PROUD,  I'm  PROUD  I'm  Scotch." 
("Not  apologizing  for  it  myself,"  said  her  brother, 
softly.)  "And  you  know  what  these  Americans  are! 
Useless  bodies,  who  make  their  men  brush  their  own 
boots,  and  have  to  pay  wages  that's  a  sin  to  housemaids, 
and  eat  pie  even-on." 

"Dear  me!  is  that  true,  or  did  you  see  it  in  a  news- 
paper?" said  her  brother.  "I  begin  to  be  alarmed  my- 
self at  the  possibilities  of  this  small  gentleman  now  on 
his  way  to  the  north,  in  the  complete  confidence  of 
Mr.  Molyneux,  who  must  think  him  very  clever.  It's 
a  land  of  infant  prodigies  he  comes  from;  even  at  the 
age  of  ten  he  may  have  more  of  the  stars  and  stripes 
in  him  than  we  can  eradicate  by  a  diet  of  porridge  and 
a  curriculum  of  Shorter  Catechism  and  Jane  Porter's 
Scottish  Chiefs.  Faith,  I  was  fond  of  Jane  myself  when 
I  read  her  first :  she  was  nice  and  bloody.  A  big  soft 
hat  with  a  bash  in  it,  perhaps;  a  rhetorical  delivery  at 
the  nose,  'I  guess  and  calculate'  every  now  and  then; 
a  habit  of  chewing  tobacco"  ("We'll  need  a  cuspidor," 
said  Ailie,  sotto  voce)\  "and  a  revolver  in  his  wee  hip- 
pocket.  Oh,  the  darling!  I  can  see  him  quite  plainly." 

"Mercy  on  us!"  cried  the  maid,  Kate,  and  fled  the 
room  all  in  a  tremor  at  the  idea  of  the  revolver. 

"You  may  say  what  you  like,  but  I  cannot  get  over 
his  being  an  American,"  said  Bell,  solemnly.  "The 

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dollar's  everything  in  America,  and  they're  so  inde- 
pendent!" 

"Terrible!  terrible!"  said  her  brother,  ironically, 
breaking  into  another  egg  fiercely  with  his  knife,  as  if 
he  were  decapitating  the  President  of  the  United  States. 

Ailie  laughed  again.  "Dear,  dear  Bell!"  she  said, 
"it  sounds  quite  Scotch.  A  devotion  to  the  dollar  is 
a  good  sound  basis  for  a  Scotch  character.  Remem- 
ber there  are  about  a  hundred  bawbees  in  a  dollar: 
just  think  of  the  dollar  in  bawbees,  and  you'll  not  be 
surprised  that  the  Americans  prize  it  so  much." 

"Renegade!"  said  Bell,  shaking  a  spoon  at  her. 

"Provincial!"  retorted  Ailie,  shaking  a  fork  at  Bell. 

"'Star  of  Peace,  to  wanderers  weary, 
Bright  the  beams  that  shine  on  me,' 

— children,  be  quiet,"  half -sung,  half-said  their  brother. 
"  Bell,  you  are  a  blether;  Ailie,  you  are  a  cosmopolitan, 
a  thing  accursed.  That's  what  Edinburgh  and  Brussels 
and  your  too  brisk  head  have  done  for  you.  Just  bring 
yourself  to  our  poor  parochial  point  of  view,  and  tell 
me,  both  of  you,  what  you  propose  to  do  with  this 
young  gentleman  from  Chicago  when  you  get  him." 

"Change  his  stockings  and  give  him  a  good  tea," 
said  Bell,  promptly,  as  if  she  had  been  planning  it  for 
weeks.  "He'll  be  starving  of  hunger  and  damp  with 
snow." 

"There's  something  more  than  dry  hose  and  high 
tea  to  the  making  of  a  man,"  said  her  brother.  "You 
can't  keep  that  up  for  a  dozen  years." 

"Oh,  you  mean  education!"  said  Bell,  resignedly. 
"That's  not  in  my  department  at  all." 

Ailie  expressed  her  views  with  calm,  soft  delibera- 
tion, as  if  she,  too,  had  been  thinking  of  nothing  else 

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for  weeks,  which  was  partly  the  case.  "I  suppose," 
she  said,  "he'll  go  to  the  grammar-school,  and  get  a 
good  grounding  on  the  classic  side,  and  then  to  the 
university.  I  will  just  love  to  help  him  so  long  as  he's 
at  the  grammar-school.  That's  what  I  should  have 
been,  Dan,  if  you  had  let  me — a  teacher.  I  hope  he's 
a  bright  boy,  for  I  simply  cannot  stand  what  Bell  calls 
—calls—" 

"Diffies,"  suggested  Bell. 

"Diffies;  yes,  I  can  not  stand  diffies.  Being  half  a 
Dyce  I  can  hardly  think  he  will  be  a  diffy.  If  he's  the 
least  like  his  father,  he  may  be  a  little  wild  at  first,  but 
at  least  he'll  be  good  company,  which  makes  up  for  a  lot, 
and  good-hearted,  quick  in  perception,  fearless,  and — " 

"And  awful  funny,"  suggested  Bell,  oeaming  with 
old,  fond,  glad  recollections  of  the  brother  dead  beside 
his  actor  wife  in  far  Chicago. 

"Fearless,  and  good  fun,"  continued  Ailie.  "Oh, 
dear  Will!  what  a  merry  soul  he  was.  Well,  the  child 
cannot  be  a  fool  if  he's  like  his  father.  American 
independence,  though  he  has  it  in — in — in  clods, 
won't  do  him  any  harm  at  all.  I  love  Americans — do 
you  hear  that,  Bell  Dyce? — because  they  beat  that 
stupid  old  King  George,  and  have  been  brave  in  the 
forest  and  wise  on  the  prairie,  and  feared  no  face  of  man, 
and  laughed  at  dynasties.  I  love  them  because  they 
gave  me  Emerson,  and  Whitman,  and  Thoreau,  and 
because  one  of  them  married  my  brother  William,  and 
was  the  mother  of  his  child." 

Dan  Dyce  nodded;  he  never  quizzed  his  sister  Ailie 
when  it  was  her  heart  that  spoke  and  her  eyes  were 
sparkling. 

"The  first  thing  you  should  learn  him,"  said  Miss 
Dyce,  "is  'God  Save  the  Queen.'  It's  a  splendid  song 

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altogether;  I'm  glad  I'm  of  a  kingdom  every  time 
I  hear  it  at  a  meeting,  for  it's  all  that's  left  of  the 
olden  notions  the  Dyces  died  young  or  lost  their 
money  for.  You'll  learn  him  that,  Ailie,  or  I'll  be 
very  vexed  with  you.  I'll  put  flesh  on  his  bones  with 
my  cooking  if  you  put  the  gentleman  in  him." 

It  was  Bell's  idea  that  a  gentleman  talked  a  very 
fine  English  accent  like  Ailie,  and  carried  himself 
stately  like  Ailie,  and  had  wise  and  witty  talk  for  rich 
or  poor  like  Ailie. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  the  university,"  she  went  on. 
"Such  stirks  come  out  of  it  sometimes;  look  at  poor 
Maclean,  the  minister!  They  'tell  me  he  could  speak 
Hebrew  if  he  got  anybody  to  speak  it  back  slow  to 
him,  but  just  imagine  the  way  he  puts  on  his  clothes! 
And  his  wife  manages  him  not  so  bad  in  broad  Scotch. 
I  think  we  could  do  nothing  better  than  make  the 
boy  a  lawyer;  it's  a  trade  looked  up  to,  and  there's 
money  in  it,  though  I  never  could  see  the  need  of  law 
myself  if  folk  would  only  be  agreeable.  He  could  go 
into  Dan's  office  whenever  he  is  old  enough." 

"A  lawyer!"  cried  her  brother.  "You  have  first  of 
all  to  see  that  he's  not  an  ass." 

"And  what  odds  would  that  make  to  a  lawyer?" 
said  Bell,  quickly,  snapping  her  eyes  at  the  brother 
she  honestly  thought  the  wisest  man  in  Scotland. 

"Bell,"  said  he,  "as  I  said  before,  you're  a  haivering 
body — nothing  else,  though  1 11  grant  you  bake  no'  a 
bad  scone.  And  as  for  you,  Ailie,  you're  beginning, 
like  most  women,  at  the  wrong  end.  The  first  thing 
to  do  with  your  nephew  is  to  teach  him  to  be  happy, 
for  it's  a  habit  that  has  to  be  acquired  early,  like  the 
taste  for  pease-brose." 

"You  began  gey  early  yourself,"  said  Bell.  "Mother 
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used  to  say  that  she  was  aye  tickling  your  feet  till  you 
laughed  when  you  were  a  baby.  I  sometimes  think  that 
she  did  not  stop  it  soon  enough." 

"If  I  had  to  educate  myself  again,  and  had  not  a 
living  to  make,  I  would  leave  out  a  good  many  things 
the  old  dominie  thought  needful.  What  was  yon 
awful  thing  again  ? — mensuration.  To  sleep  well  and 
eat  anything,  fear  the  face  of  nobody  in  bashfulness, 
to  like  dancing,  and  be  able  to  sing  a  good  bass  or 
tenor — that's  no  bad  beginning  in  the  art  of  life. 
There's  a  fellow  Brodie  yonder  in  the  kirk  choir,  who 
seems  to  me  happier  than  a  king  when  he's  getting  in  a 
fine  boom-boom  of  bass  to,  the  tune  Devizes;  he  puts  me 
all  out  at  my  devotions  on  a  Lord's  day  with  envy  of 
his  accomplishment." 

"What!  envy  too!"  said  Alison.  "Murder,  theft, 
and  envy — what  a  brother!" 

"Yes,  envy  too,  the  commonest  and  ugliest  of  our 
sins,"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "I  never  met  man  or  woman 
who  lacked  it,  though  many  never  know  they  have  it. 
I  hope  the  great  thing  is  to  be  ashamed  to  feel  it,  for 
that's  all  that  I  can  boast  of  myself.  When  I  was  a  boy 
at  the  school  there  was  another  boy,  a  great  friend  of  my 
own,  was  chosen  to  compete  for  a  prize  I  was  thought 
incapable  of  taking,  so  that  I  was  not  on  the  list.  I 
envied  him  to  hatred — almost;  and  saying  my  bits  of 
prayers  at  night  I  prayed  that  he  might  win.  I  felt 
ashamed  of  my  envy,  and  set  the  better  Daniel  Dyce 
to  wrestle  with  the  Daniel  Dyce  who  was  not  quite  so 
big.  It  was  a  sair  fight,  I  can  assure  you.  I  found 
the  words  of  my  prayer  and  my  wishes  considerably 
at  variance — " 

"Like  me  and  'Thy  will  be  done'  when  we  got  the 
word  of  brother  William,"  said  Bell. 

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"But  my  friend — dash  him! — got  the  prize.  I 
suppose  God  took  a  kind  of  vizzy  down  that  night 
and  saw  the  better  Dan  Dyce  was  doing  his  desperate 
best  against  the  other  devil's — Dan,  who  mumbled  the 
prayer  on  the  chance  He  would  never  notice.  There 
was  no  other  way  of  accounting  for  it,  for  that  con- 
founded boy  got  the  prize,  and  he  was  not  half  so 
clever  as  myself,  and  that  was  Alick  Maitland.  Say 
nothing  about  envy,  Ailie;  I  fear  we  all  have  some 
of  it  until  we  are  perhaps  well  up  in  years,  and  un- 
derstand that  between  the  things  we  envy  and  the 
luck  we  have  there  is  not  much  to  choose.  If  I  got 
all  I  wanted,  myself,  the  world  would  have  to  be 
much  enlarged.  It  does  not  matter  a  docken  leaf. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying  when  my  learned  friend  in- 
terrupted me,  I  would  have  this  young  fellow  healthy 
and  happy  and  interested  in  everything.  There  are 
men  I  see  who  would  mope  and  weary  in  the  middle 
of  a  country  fair — God  help  them!  I  want  to  stick 
pins  in  them  sometimes  and  make  them  jump.  They 
take  as  little  interest  in  life  as  if  they  were  undertakers." 

"Hoots!  nobody  could  weary  in  this  place  at  any 
rate,"  said  Bell  briskly.  "Look  at  the  life  and  gayety 
that's  in  it.  Talk  about  London!  I  can  hardly  get  my 
sleep  at  night  quite  often  with  the  traffic.  And  such 
things  are  always  happening  in  it — births  and  mar- 
riages, engagements  and  tea-parties,  new  patterns  at 
Miss  Minto's,  two  coaches  in  the  day,  and  sometimes 
somebody  doing  something  silly  that  will  keep  you 
laughing  half  the  week." 

"But  it's  not  quite  so  lively  as  Chicago,"  said  Mr. 
Dyce.  "There  has  not  been  a  man  shot  in  this  neigh- 
borhood since  the  tinker  kind  of  killed  his  wife  (as 
the  fiscal  says)  with  the  pistol.  You'll  have  heard 

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of  him?  When  the  man  was  being  brought  on  the 
scaffold  for  it,  and  the  minister  asked  if  he  had  any- 
thing to  say  before  he  suffered  the  extreme  penalty 
of  the  law,  'All  I  have  got  to  say,'  he  answered,  starting 
to  greet,  'is  that  this'll  be  an  awful  lesson  to  me.'" 

"That's  one  of  your  old  ones,"  said  Bell;  but  even 
an  old  one  was  welcome  in  Dyce's  house  on  New  Year's 
day,  and  the  three  of  them  laughed  at  the  story  as  if 
it  had  newly  come  from  London  in  Ailie's  precious 
Punch.  The  dog  fell  into  a  convulsion  of  merriment, 
as  if  inward  chuckles  tormented  him — as  queer  a  dog 
as  ever  was,  neither  Scotch  terrier  nor  Skye,  Dandy 
Dinmont  nor  Dashshund,  but  just  dog — dark  wire- 
haired  behind,  short  ruddy-haired  in  front,  a  stump 
tail,  a  face  so  f ringefi* you  could  only  see  its  eyes  when 
the  wind  blew.  Mr.  Dyce  put  down  his  hand  and 
scratched  it  behind  the  ear.  "Don't  laugh,  Footles," 
he  said.  "I  would  not  laugh  if  I  were  you,  Footles — 
it's  just  an  old  one.  Many  a  time  you've  heard  it 
before,  sly  rogue.  One  would  think  you  wanted  to 
borrow  money."  If  you  could  hear  Dan  Dyce  speak 
to  his  dog,  you  would  know  at  once  he  was  a  bachelor: 
only  bachelors  and  bairnless  men  know  dogs. 

"I  hope  and  trust  he'll  have  decent  clothes  to 
wear,  and  none  of  their  American  rubbish,"  broke  in 
Bell,  back  to  her  nephew  again.  "It's  all  nonsense 
about  the  bashed  hat;  but  you  can  never  tell  what 
way  an  American  play-actor  will  dress  a  bairn:  there's 
sure  to  be  something  daft-like  about  him — a  starry 
waistcoat  or  a  pair  of  spats — and  we  must  make  him 
respectable  like  other  boys  in  the  place." 

"I  would  say  Norfolk  suits,  the  same  as  the  banker's 
boys,"  suggested  Ailie.  "I  think  the  banker's  boys 
always  look  so  smart  and  neat." 

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"Anything  with  plenty  of  pockets  in  it,"  said  Mr. 
Dyce.  "At  the  age  of  ten  a  boy  would  prefer  his 
clothes  to  be  all  pockets.  By  George!  an  entire  suit 
of  pockets,  with  a  new  penny  in  every  pocket  for  luck, 
would  be  a  great  treat,"  and  he  chuckled  at  the  idea, 
making  a  mental  note  of  it  for  a  future  occasion. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  "cried  Bell,  emphatically,  for  here 
she  was  in  her  own  department.  "The  boy  is  going  to 
be  a  Scotch  boy.  I'll  have  the  kilt  on  him,  or  nothing." 

"The  kilt!"  said  Mr.  Dyce. 

" The  kilt!"  cried  Ailie. 

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat ! 

It  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  front  door.  They 
stopped  the  talk  to  listen,  and  they  heard  the  maid 
go  along  the  lobby  from  the  kitchen.  When  she 
opened  the  door,  there  came  in  the  cheerful  discord 
of  the  street,  the  sound  of  a  pounding  drum,  the 
fifes  still  busy,  the  orange-hawker's  cry,  but  over 
all  they  heard  her  put  her  usual  interrogation  to 
visitors,  no  matter  what  their  state  or  elegance. 

"Well,  what  is't?"  she  asked,  and  though  they 
could  not  see  her,  they  knew  she  would  have  the 
door  just  a  trifle  open,  with  her  shoulder  against  it, 
as  if  she  was  there  to  repel  some  chieftain  of  a  wild 
invading  clan.  Then  they  heard  her  cry,  "Mercy  on 
me!"  and  her  footsteps  hurrying  to  the  parlor  door. 
She  threw  it  open,  and  stood  with  some  one  behind  her. 

"What  do  you  think?  Here's  brother  William's 
wean!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  gasp. 

"My  God!  Where  is  he?"  cried  Bell,  the  first  to 
find  her  tongue.  "He's  no  hurt,  is  he?" 

''It's  no'  a  him  at  all — it's  a  her!"  shrieked  Kate, 
throwing  up  her  arms  in  consternation,  and  stepping 
aside  she  gave  admission  to  a  little  girl. 

30 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  orphan  child  of  William  and  Mary  Dyce,  dead, 
the  pair  of  them,  in  the  far-off  city  of  Chicago, 
stepped,  quite  serenely,  into  an  astounded  company. 
There  were  three  Dyces  in  a  row  in  front  of  her,  and 
the  droll  dog  Footles  at  her  feet,  and  behind  her, 
Kate,  the  servant,  wringing  her  apron  as  if  it  had 
newly  come  from  the  washing-boyne,  her  bosom  heav- 
ing. Ten  eyes  (if  you  could  count  the  dog's,  hidden 
by  his  tousy  fringe)  stared  at  the  child  a  moment,  and 
any  ordinary  child  would  have  been  much  put  out; 
but  this  was  no  common  child,  or  else  she  felt  at  once 
the  fond  kind  air  of  home.  I  will  give  you  her  picture 
in  a  sentence  or  two.  She  was  black-haired,  dark  and 
quick  in  the  eye,  not  quite  pale  but  olive  in  com- 
plexion, with  a  chin  she  held  well  up,  and  a  coun- 
tenance neither  shy  nor  bold,  but  self-possessed.  Fur 
on  her  neck  and  hood  (Jim  Molyneux's  last  gift),  and 
a  muff  that  held  her  arms  up  to  the  elbows,  gave  her 
an  aspect  of  picture-book  cosiness  that  put  the  maid  in 
mind  at  once  of  the  butcher's  Christmas  calendar. 

It  was  the  dog  that  first  got  over  the  astonish- 
ment: he  made  a  dive  at  her  with  little  friendly  growls, 
and  rolled  on  his  back  at  her  feet,  to  paddle  with  his 
four  paws  in  the  air,  which  was  his  way  of  showing  he 
was  in  the  key  for  fun. 

With  a  cry  of  glee  she  threw  the  muff  on  the  floor 


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and  plumped  beside  him,  put  her  arms  about  his 
body  and  buried  her  face  in  his  fringe.  His  tail  went 
waving,  joyous,  like  a  banner.  "Doggie,  doggie,  you 
love  me,"  said  she,  in  an  accent  that  was  anything  but 
American.  "Let  us  pause  and  consider — you  will  not 
leave  this  house  till  I  boil  you  an  egg." 

"God  bless  me,  what  child's  this?"  cried  Bell,  com- 
ing to  herself  with  a  start,  and,  pouncing  on  her,  she 
lifted  her  to  her  feet.  Ailie  sank  on  her  hands  and 
knees  and  stared  in  the  visitor's  face.  "The  kilt, 
indeed!"  said  Mr.  Dyce  to  himself.  "This  must  be  a 
warlock  wean,  for  if  it  has  not  got  the  voice  and  senti- 
ment of  Wanton  Wully  Oliver  I'm  losing  my  wits." 

"Tell  me  this,  quick,  are  you  Lennox  Dyce?"  said 
Bell,  all  trembling,  devouring  the  little  one  with  her 
eyes. 

"Well,  I  just  guess  I  am,"  replied  the  child,  calmly, 
with  the  dog  licking  her  chin.  "Say,  are  you  Auntie 
Bell?"  and  this  time  there  was  no  doubt  about  the 
American  accent.  Up  went  her  mouth  to  them  to 
be  kissed,  composedly:  they  lost  no  time,  but  fell  upon 
her,  Ailie  half  in  tears  because  at  once  she  saw  below 
the  childish  hood  so  much  of  brother  William. 

"Lennox,  dear,  you  should  not  speak  like  that; 
who  in  all  the  world  taught  you  to  speak  like  that?" 
said  Bell,  unwrapping  her. 

"Why,  I  thought  that  was  all  right  here,"  said  the 
stranger.  "That's  the  way  the  bell-man  speaks." 

"Bless  me!  Do  you  know  the  bell-man?"  cried 
Miss  Dyce. 

"I  rang  his  old  bell  for  him  this  morning — didn't 
you  hear  me?"  was  the  surprising  answer.  "He's  a 
nice  man;  he  liked  me.  I'd  like  him  too  if  he  wasn't 
so  tired.  He  was  too  tired  to  speak  sense?  all  he  would 

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say  was,  'I've  lost  the  place,  let  us  pause  and  con- 
sider,' and  'Try  another  egg.'  I  said  I  would  give  him 
a  quarter  if  he'd  let  me  ring  his  bell,  and  he  said  he'd 
let  me  do  it  for  nothing,  and  my  breakfast  besides. 
'  You'll  not  leave  this  house  till  I  boil  an  egg  for  you ' 
— that's  what  he  said,  and  the  poor  man  was  so  tired ! 
And  his  legs  were  dreff'le  poorly."  Again  her  voice  was 
the  voice  of  Wully  Oliver;  the  sentiment,  as  the  Dyces 
knew,  was  the  slogan  of  his  convivial  hospitality. 

"The  kilt,  indeed!"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  feeling  extra- 
ordinarily foolish,  and,  walking  past  them,  he  went 
up-stairs  and  hurriedly  put  the  pea-sling  in  his  pocket. 

When  he  came  down,  young  America  was  indiffer- 
ently pecking  at  her  second  breakfast  with  Footles 
on  her  knee,  an  aunt  on  either  side  of  her,  and  the 
maid  Kate  with  a  tray  in  her  hand  for  excuse,  open- 
mouthed,  half  in  at  the  door. 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Jim — that's  my  dear  Mr. 
Molyneux,  you  know — got  busy  with  a  lot  of  the 
boys  once  he  landed  off  that  old  ship,  and  so  he  said, 
'Bud,  this  is  the — the — justly  cel'brated  Great  Britain; 
I  know  by  the  boys;  they're  so  lively  when  they're  by 
themselves.  I  was  'prehensive  we  might  have  missed 
it  in  the  dark,  but  it's  all  right.'  And  next  day  he 
bought  me  this  muff  and  things  and  put  me  on  the 
cars — say,  what  funny  cars  you  have! — and  said 
'Good-bye,  Bud;  just  go  right  up  to  Maryfield,  and 
change  there.  If  you're  lost  anywhere  on  the  island 
just  holler  out  good  and  loud,  and  I'll  hear!'  He 
pretended  he  wasn't  caring,  but  he  was  pretty  blinky 
'bout  the  eyes,  and  I  saw  he  wasn't  anyway  gay,  so  I 
never  let  on  the  way  I  felt  myself." 

She  suggested  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  absent 
Molyneux  in  a  fashion  to  put  him  in  the  flesh  before 

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them.  Kate  almost  laughed  out  loud  at  the  oddity 
of  it;  Ailie  and  her  brother  were  astounded  at  the 
cleverness  of  the  mimicry;  Bell  clinched  her  hands, 
and  said  for  the  second  time  that  day,  "Oh!  that 
Molyneux,  if  I  had  him!" 

"He's  a  nice  man,  Jim.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
I  love  him  —  and  he  gave  me  heaps  of  candy  at 
the  depot,"  proceeded  the  unabashed  new-comer. 
"'Change  at  Edinburgh,'  he  said;  'you'll  maybe  have 
time  to  run  into  the  Castle  and  see  the  Duke;  give 
him  my  love,  but  not  my  address.  When  you  get 
to  Maryfield  hop  out  slick  and  ask  for  your  uncle 
Dyce.'  And  then  he  said,  did  Jim,  'I  hope  he  ain't 
a  loaded  Dyce,  seein'  he's  Scotch,  and  it's  the  festive 
season.' " 

"The  adorable  Jim!"  said  Ailie.  "We  might  have 
known." 

"I  got  on  all  right,"  proceeded  the  child,  "but  I 
didn't  see  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh;  there  wasn't  time, 
and  uncle  wasn't  at  Maryfield,  but  a  man  put  me  on 
his  mail  carriage  and  drove  me  right  here.  He  said 
I  was  a  caution.  My!  it  was  cold.  Say,  is  it  always 
weather  like  this  here?" 

"Sometimes  it's  like  this,  and  sometimes  it's  just 
ordinary  Scotch  weather,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  twinkling  at 
her  through  his  spectacles. 

"I  was  dre'ffle  sleepy  in  the  mail,  and  the  driver 
wrapped  me  up,  and  when  I  came  into  this  town  in 
the  dark  he  said,  'Walk  right  down  there  and  rap  at 
the  first  door  you  see  with  a  brass  man's  hand  for  a 
knocker;  that's  Mr.  Dyce's  house.'  I  came  down,  and 
there  wasn't  any  brass  man,  but  I  saw  the  knocker. 
I  couldn't  reach  up  to  it,  so  when  I  saw  a  man  going 
into  the  church  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand..  I  went  up 

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to  him  and  pulled  his  coat.  I  knew  he'd  be  all  right 
going  into  a  church.  He  told  me  he  was  going  to 
ring  the  bell,  and  I  said  I'd  give  him  a  quarter — oh, 
I  said  that  before.  When  the  bell  was  finished  he 
took  me  to  his  house  for  luck — that  was  what  he 
said — and  he  and  his  wife  got  right  up  and  boiled 
eggs.  They  said  I  was  a  caution,  too,  and  they  went 
on  boiling  eggs,  and  I  couldn't  eat  more  than  two 
and  a  white  though  I  tried  and  tried.  I  think  I  slept  a 
good  while  in  their  house;  I  was  so  fatigued,  and  they 
were  all  right,  they  loved  me,  I  could  see  that.  And 
I  liked  them  some  myself,  though  they  must  be  mighty 
poor,  for  they  haven't  any  children.  Then  the  bell- 
man took  me  to  this  house,  and  rapped  at  the  door, 
and  went  away  pretty  quick  for  him  before  anybody 
came  to  it,  because  he  said  he  was  plain-soled — what's 
plain-soled  anyhow? — and  wasn't  a  lucky  first-foot 
on  a  New  Year's  morning." 

"It  beats  all,  that's  what  it  does!"  cried  Bell.  "My 
poor  wee  whitterick!  Were  ye  no'  frightened  on  the 
sea?" 

"Whitterick,  whitterick,"  repeated  the  child  to 
herself,  and  Ailie,  noticing,  was  glad  that  this  was 
certainly  not  a  diffy.  Dimes  never  interest  them- 
selves in  new  words;  diffies  never  go  inside  them- 
selves with  a  new  fact  as  a  dog  goes  under  a  table 
with  a  bone. 

"Were  you  not  frightened  when  you  were  on  the 
sea?"  repeated  Bell. 

"No,"  said  the  child,  promptly.  "Jim  was  there 
all  right,  you  see,  and  he  knew  all  about  it.  He  said, 
'Trust  in  Providence,  and  if  it's  very  stormy,  trust  in 
Providence  and  the  Scotch  captain.'" 

"I  declare!  the  creature  must  have  some  kind  of 
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sense  in  him,  too,"  said  Bell,  a  little  mollified  by  this 
compliment  to  Scots  sea-captains.  And  all  the  Dyces 
fed  their  eyes  upon  this  wonderful  wean  that  had 
fallen  among  them.  'Twas  happy  in  that  hour  with 
them,  as  if  in  a  miracle  they  had  been  remitted  to 
their  own  young  years;  their  dwelling  was  at  long 
last  furnished!  She  had  got  into  the  good  graces  of 
Footles  as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her  life. 

"Say,  uncle,  this  is  a  funny  dog,"  was  her  next 
remark.  "Did  God  make  him?" 

"Well — yes,  I  suppose  God  did,"  said  Mr.  Dyce, 
taken  a  bit  aback. 

"Well,  isn't  He  the  darnedst!  This  dog  beats  Mrs. 
Molyneux's  Dodo,  and  Dodo  was  a  looloo.  What 
sort  of  a  dog  is  he  ?  Scotch  terrier  ?" 

"Mostly  not,"  said  her  uncle,  chuckling.  "It's 
really  an  improvement  on  the  Scotch  terrier.  There's 
later  patents  in  him,  you  might  say.  He's  a  sort  of 
mosaic;  indeed,  when  I  think  of  it  you  might  describe 
him  as  a  pure  mosaic  dog." 

"A  Mosaic  dog!"  exclaimed  Lennox.  "Then  he 
must  have  come  from  scriptural  parts.  Perhaps  I'll 
get  playing  with  him  Sundays.  Not  playing  loud 
out,  you  know,  but  just  being  happy.  I  love  being 
happy,  don't  you?" 

"It's  my  only  weakness,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  emphati- 
cally, blinking  through  his  glasses.  "The  other  busi- 
ness men  in  the  town  don't  approve  of  me  for  it;  they 
call  it  frivolity.  But  it  comes  so  easily  to  me  I  never 
charge  it  in  the  bills,  though  a  sense  of  humor  should 
certainly  be  worth  125.  6d.  a  smile  in  the  Table  of  Fees. 
It  would  save  many  a  costly  plea." 

"Didn't  you  play  on  Sunday  in  Chicago?"  asked 
Ailie, 

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"Not  out  loud.  Poppa  said  he  was  bound  to  have 
me  Scotch  in  one  thing  at  least,  even  if  it  took  a  strap. 
That  was  after  mother  died.  He'd  just  read  to  me 
Sundays,  and  we  went  to  church  till  we  had  pins  and 
needles.  We  had  the  Reverend  Ebenezer  Paul  Frazer, 
M.A.,  Presbyterian  Church  on  the  Front.  He  just 
preached  and  preached  till  we  had  pins  and  needles 
all  over." 

"My  poor  Lennox!"  exclaimed  Ailie,  with  feeling. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right!"  said  young  America,  blithely. 
"I'm  not  kicking." 

Dan  Dyce,  with  his  head  to  the  side,  took  off  his 
spectacles  and  rubbed  them  clean  with  his  handker- 
chief; put  them  on  again,  looked  at  his  niece  through 
them,  and  then  at  Ailie,  with  some  motion  strug- 
gling in  his  countenance.  Ailie  for  a  moment  sup- 
pressed some  inward  convulsion,  and  turned  her  gaze 
embarrassed  from  him  to  Bell,  and  Bell  catching  the 
eyes  of  both  of  them  could  contain  her  joy  no  longer. 
They  laughed  till  the  tears  came,  and  none  more 
heartily  than  brother  William's  child.  She  had  so 
sweet  a  laugh  that  there  and  then  the  Dyces  thought 
it  the  loveliest  sound  they  had  ever  heard  in  their 
house.  Her  aunts  would  have  devoured  her  with 
caresses.  Her  uncle  stood  over  her  and  beamed, 
rubbing  his  hands,  expectant  every  moment  of  an- 
other manifestation  of  the  oddest  kind  of  child  mind 
he  had  ever  encountered.  And  Kate  swept  out  and 
in  between  the  parlor  and  the  kitchen  on  trivial  ex- 
cuses, generally  with  something  to  eat  for  the  child, 
who  had  eaten  so  much  in  the  house  of  Wanton  Wully 
Oliver  that  she  was  indifferent  to  the  rarest  delicacies 
of  Bell's  celestial  grocery. 

"You're  just — just  a  wee  witch!"  said  Bell,  fond- 
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ling  the  child's  hair.  "Do  you  know,  that  man 
Molyneux — " 

"Jim,"  suggested  Lennox. 

"I  would  Jim  him  if  I  had  him!  That  man  Moly- 
neux in  all  his  scrimping  little  letters  never  said 
whether  you  were  a  boy  or  a  girl,  and  we  thought 
a  Lennox  was  bound  to  be  a  boy,  and  all  this  time 
we  have  been  expecting  a  boy." 

"I  declare!"  said  the  little  one,  with  the  most 
amusing  drawl,  a  memory  of  Molyneux.  "Why,  I 
always  was  a  girl,  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  No- 
body never  gave  me  the  chance  to  be  a  boy.  I  s'pose 
I  hadn't  the  clothes  for  the  part,  and  they  just  pushed 
me  along  anyhow  in  frocks.  Would  you'd  rather  I 
was  a  boy?" 

"Not  a  bit!  We  have  one  in  the  house  already, 
and  he's  a  fair  heart-break,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  look 
towards  Mr.  Dyce.  "We  had  just  made  up  our  mind 
to  dress  you  in  the  kilt  when  your  rap  came  to  the 
door.  At  least,  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  the  others 
are  so  stubborn.  And  bless  me!  lassie,  where's  your  lug- 
gage? You  surely  did  not  come  all  the  way  from 
Chicago  with  no  more  than  what  you  have  on  your 
back?" 

"You'll  be  tickled  to  death  to  see  my  trunks!"  said 
Lennox.  "I've  heaps  and  heaps  of  clothes  and  six 
dolls.  They're  all  coming  with  the  coach.  They 
wanted  me  to  wait  for  the  coach  too,  but  the  mail 
man  who  called  me  a  caution  said  he  was  bound  to 
have  a  passenger  for  luck  on  New  Year's  Day,  and  I 
was  in  a  hurry  to  get  home  anyway." 

"Home!"  When  she  said  that,  the  two  aunts  swept 
on  her  like  a  billow  and  bore  her,  dog  and  all,  up-stairs 
to  her  room.  She  was  almost  blind  for  want  of  sleep. 

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They  hovered  over  her  quick-fingered,  airy  as  bees, 
stripping  her  for  bed.  She  knelt  a  moment  and  in  one 
breath  said: 

' '  God  -  bless  -  father  -  and  -  mother  -  and  -  Jim  -  and  - 
Mrs.  -  Molyneux  -  and  -  my  -  aunts  -  in  -  Scotland  -  and 
Uncle  -  Dan  -  and  -  everybody  -  good  -  night." 

And  was  asleep  in  the  sunlight  of  the  room  as  soon 
as  her  head  fell  on  the  pillow. 

"She  prayed  for  her  father  and  mother,"  whispered 
Bell,  with  Footles  in  her  arms,  as  they  stood  beside 
the  bed.  "It's  not — it's  not  quite  Presbyterian  to 
pray  for  the  dead;  it's  very  American,  indeed  you 
might  call  it  papist." 

Ailie's  face  reddened,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"And  do  you  know  this?"  said  Bell,  shamefacedly, 
"I  do  it  myself;  upon  my  word,  I  do  it  myself.  I'm 
often  praying  for  father  and  mother  and  William." 

"So  am  I,"  confessed  Alison,  plainly  relieved.  "I'm 
afraid  I'm  a  poor  Presbyterian,  for  I  never  knew  there 
was  anything  wrong  in  doing  so." 

Below,  in  the  parlor,  Mr.  Dyce  stood  looking  into 
the  white  garden,  a  contented  man,  humming: 

"Star  of  Peace,  to  wanderers  weary." 


CHAPTER  V 

SHE  was  a  lucky  lassie,  this  of  ours,  to  have  come 
home  to  her  father's  Scotland  on  that  New  Year's 
Day,  for  there  is  no  denying  that  it  is  not  always 
gay  in  Scotland,  contrary  land,  that,  whether  we  be 
deep  down  in  the  waist  of  the  world  and  afar  from 
her,  or  lying  on  her  breast,  chains  us  to  her  with  links 
of  iron  and  gold  —  stern  tasks  and  happy  days  re- 
membered, ancient  stories,  austerity  and  freedom, 
cold  weather  on  moor  and  glen,  warm  hearths  and 
burning  hearts.  She  might  have  seen  this  burgh  first 
in  its  solemnity,  on  one  of  the  winter  days  when  it 
shivers  and  weeps  among  its  old  memorials,  and  the 
wild  geese  cry  more  constant  over  the  house-tops, 
and  the  sodden  gardens,  lanes,  wynds,  and  wells,  the 
clanging  spirits  of  old  citizens  dead  and  gone,  haunt- 
ing the  place  of  their  follies  and  their  good  times, 
their  ridiculous  ideals,  their  mistaken  ambitions,  their 
broken  plans.  Ah,  wild  geese!  wild  geese!  old  ghosts 
that  cry  to-night  above  my  dwelling,  I  feel — I  feel 
and  know!  She  might  have  come,  the  child,  to  days 
of  fast,  and  sombre  dark  drugget  garments,  dissonant 
harsh  competing  kettle  bells,  or  spoiled  harvests,  poor 
fishings,  hungry  hours.  It  was  good  for  her,  and  it 
is  the  making  of  my  story,  that  she  came  not  then, 
but  with  the  pure  white  cheerful  snow,  to  ring  the 
burgh  bell  in  her  childish  escapade,  and  usher  in  with 

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merriment  the   New   Year,  and   begin   her  new   life 
happily  in  the  Old  World. 

She  woke  at  noon  among  the  scented  curtains,  in 
linen  sea-breeze  bleached,  under  the  camceil  roof 
that  all  children  love,  for  it  makes  a  garret  like  the 
ancestral  cave  and  in  rainy  weather  they  can  hear 
the  pattering  feet  of  foes  above  them.  She  heard 
the  sound  of  John  Taggart's  drum,  and  the  fifing  of 
"Happy  we've  been  a'  thegether,"  and  turning,  found 
upon  her  pillow  a  sleeping  doll  that  woke  whenever 
she  raised  it  up,  and  stared  at  her  in  wonderment. 

"Oh! — Oh!— Oh!  you  >  roly-poly  blonde!"  cried  the 
child  in  ecstasy,  hugging  it  to  her  bosom  and  covering 
it  with  kisses.  "I'm  as  glad  as  anything.  Do  you 
see  the  lovely  little  room?  I'll  tell  you  right  here 
what  your  name  is:  it's  Alison;  no,  it's  Bell;  no,  it's 
Alibel  for  your  two  just  lovely,  lovely  aunties." 

Up  she  rose,  sleep  banished,  with  a  sense  of  cheer- 
fulness and  expectation,  nimbly  dressed  herself,  and 
slid  down  the  banisters  to  tumble  plump  at  the  feet  of 
her  Auntie  Bell  in  the  lobby. 

"Mercy  on  us!  You'll  break  your  neck;  are  you 
hurt?"  cried  Aunt  Bell.  "I'm  not  kicking,"  said  the 
child,  and  the  dog  waved  furiously  a  gladsome  tail. 
A  log  fire  blazed  and  crackled  and  hissed  in  the  parlor, 
and  Mr.  Dyce  tapped  time  with  his  fingers  on  a  chair- 
back  to  an  internal  hymn. 

"My!  ain't  I  the  naughty  girl  to  be  snoozling  away 
like  a  gopher  in  a  hole  all  day?  Your  clock's  stopped, 
Uncle  Dan." 

Mr.  Dyce  looked  very  guilty,  and  coughed,  rubbing 
his  chin.  "You're  a  noticing  creature,"  said  he.  "I 
declare  it  has  stopped.  Well,  well!"  and  his  sister 
Bell  plainly  enjoyed  some  amusing  secret. 

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"Your  uncle  is  always  a  little  daft,  my  dear,"  she 
said. 

"I  would  rather  be  daft  than  dismal,"  he  retorted, 
cleaning  his  glasses. 

"It's  a  singular  thing  that  the  clocks  in  our  lobby 
and  parlor  always  stop  on  the  New  Year's  Day,  Lennox." 

"Bud;  please,  say  Bud,"  pleaded  the  little  one. 
"Nobody  ever  calls  me  Lennox  'cept  when  I'm  doing 
something  wrong  and  almost  going  to  get  a  whipping." 

"Very  well,  Bud,  then.  This  clock  gets  something 
wrong  with  it  every  New  Year's  Day,  for  your  uncle, 
that  man  there,  wants  the  folk  who  call  never  to  know 
the  time  so  that  they'll  bide  the  longer." 

"Tuts!"  said  Uncle  Dan,  who  had  thought  this  was 
his  own  particular  recipe  for  joviality,  and  that  they 
had  never  discovered  it. 

"You  have  come  to  a  hospitable  town.  Bud,"  said 
Ailie.  "There  are  convivial  old  gentlemen  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street  who  have  got  up  a  petition  to 
the  magistrates  to  shut  up  the  inn  and  the  public-house 
in  the  afternoon.  They  say  it  is  in  the  interests  of 
temperance,  but  it's  really  to  compel  their  convivial 
friends  to  visit  themselves." 

"I  signed  it  myself,"  confessed  Mr.  Dyce,  "and  I'm 
only  half  convivial.  I'm  not  bragging;  I  might  have 
been  more  convivial  if  it  didn't  so  easily  give  me 
an  aching  head.  What's  more  cheerful  than  a  crowd  in 
the  house  and  the  clash  going?  A  fine  fire,  a  good 
light,  and  turn  about  at  a  story!  The  happiest  time 
I  ever  had  in  my  life  was  when  I  broke  my  leg;  so 
many  folk  called,  it  was  like  a  month  of  New  Year's 
Days.  I  was  born  with  a  craving  for  company.  Mother 
used  to  have  a  superstition  that  if  a  knife  or  spoon 
dropped  on  the  floor  from  the  table  it  betokened  a 

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visitor,  and  I  used  to  drop  them  by  the  dozen.  But, 
dear  me!  here's  a  wean  with  a  doll,  and  where  in  the 
world  did  she  get  it?" 

Bud,  with  the  doll  under  one  arm  and  the  dog  tucked 
under  the  other,  laughed  up  in  his  face  with  shy  per- 
ception. 

"Oh,  you  funny  man!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  guess 
you  know  all  right  who  put  Alibel  on  my  pillow. 
Why!  I  could  have  told  you  were  a  doll  man:  I 
noticed  you  turning  over  the  pennies  in  your  pants' 
pocket,  same  as  poppa  used  when  he  saw  any  nice 
clean  little  girl  like  me,  and  he  was  the  dolliest  man 
in  all  Chicago.  Why,  there  was  treasury  days  when 
he  just  rained  dolls." 

"That  was  William,  sure  enough,"  said  Mr.  Dyce. 
"There's  no  need  for  showing  us  your  strawberry 
mark.  It  was  certainly  William.  If  it  had  only  been 
dolls!" 

"Her  name's  Alibel,  for  her  two  aunties,"  said  the 
child. 

"Tuts!"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "If  I  had  thought  you 
meant  to  honor  them  that  way  I  would  have  made 
her  twins.  But  you  see  I  did  not  know;  it  was  a 
delicate  transaction  as  it  was.  I  could  not  tell  very 
well  whether  a  doll  or  a — a — or  a  fountain-pen  would 
be  the  most  appropriate  present  for  a  ten-year-old 
niece  from  Chicago,  and  I  risked  the  doll.  I  hope  it 
fits." 

"Like  a  halo!  It's  just  sweet!"  said  the  ecstatic 
maiden,  and  rescued  one  of  its  limbs  from  the  gorge 
of  Footles. 

It  got  about  the  town  that  to  Dyces'  house  had 
come  a  wonderful  American  child  who  talked  language 
like  a  minister:  the  news  was  partly  the  news  of  the 

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mail-driver  and  Wully  Oliver,  but  mostly  the  news  of 
Kate,  who,  trom  the  moment  Lennox  had  been  taken 
from  her  presence  and  put  to  bed,  had  dwelt  upon  the 
window-sashes,  letting  no  one  pass  that  side  of  the 
street  without  her  confidence. 

"You  never  heard  the  like!  No'  the  size  of  a 
shillin's  worth  of  ha'pennies,  and  she  came  all  the 
way  by  her  lee-lone  in  the  coach  from  Chickagoo — 
that's  in  America.  There's  to  be  throng  times  in 
this  house  now,  I'm  tellin'  you,  with  brother  William's 
wean." 

As  the  forenoon  advanced  Kate's  intelligence  grew 
more  surprising:  to  the  new-comer  were  ascribed  a 
score  of  characteristics  such  as  had  never  been  seen 
in  the  town  before.  For  one  thing  (would  Kate 
assure  them),  she  could  imitate  Wully  Oliver  till 
you  almost  saw  whiskers  on  her  and  could  smell  the 
dram.  She  was  thought  to  be  a  boy  to  start  with, 
but  that  was  only  their  ignorance  in  Chickagoo,  for 
the  girl  was  really  a  lassie,  and  had  kists  of  lassie's 
clothes  coming  with  the  coach. 

The  Dyces'  foreigner  was  such  a  grand  sensation 
that  it  marred  the  splendor  of  the  afternoon  band 
parade,  though  John  Taggart  was  unusually  glorious, 
walking  on  the  very  backs  of  his  heels,  his  nose  in 
the  heavens,  and  his  drumsticks  soaring  and  circling 
over  his  head  in  a  way  to  make  the  spectators  giddy. 
Instead  of  following  the  band  till  its  repertoire  was 
suddenly  done  at  five  minutes  to  twelve  at  the  door 
of  Maggie  White,  the  wine  and  spirit  merchant,  there 
were  many  that  hung  about  the  street  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  the  American.  They  thought  they  would 
know  her  at  once  by  the  color  of  her  skin,  which  some 
said  would  be  yellow,  and  others  maintained  would  be 

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brown.  A  few  less  patient  and  more  privileged  boldly 
visited  the  house  of  Dyce  to  make  their  New -Year 
compliments  and  see  the  wonder  for  themselves. 

The  American  had  her  eye  on  them. 

She  had  her  eye  on  the  Sheriff's  lady,  who  was  so 
determinedly  affable,  so  pleased  with  everything  the 
family  of  Dyce  might  say,  do,  or  possess,  and  only 
five  times  ventured  to  indicate  there  were  others,  by 
a  mention  of  "the  dear  Lady  Anne — so  nice,  so  simple, 
so  unaffected,  so  amiable." 

On  Miss  Minto  of  the  crimson  cloak,  who  kept  her 
deaf  ear  to  the  sisters  and  her  good  one  to  their  brother, 
and  laughed  heartily  at  all  his  little  jokes  even  before 
they  were  half  made,  or  looked  at  him  with  large, 
soft,  melting  eyes  and  her  lips  apart,  which  her  glass 
had  told  h^r  was  an  aspect  ravishing.  The  sisters 
smiled  at  each  other  when  she  had  gone  and  looked 
comically  at  Dan,  but  he,  poor  man,  saw  nothing,  but 
just  that  Mary  Minto  was  a  good  deal  fatter  than  she 
used  to  be. 

On  the  doctor's  two  sisters,  late  come  from  a  farm 
in  the  country,  marvellously  at  ease  so  long  as  the 
conversation  abode  in  gossip  about  the  neighbors, 
but  in  a  silent  terror  when  it  rose  from  persons  to 
ideas,  as  it  once  had  done  when  Lady  Anne  had  asked 
them  what  they  thought  of  didactic  poetry,  and  one 
of  them  said  it  was  a  thing  she  was  very  fond  of,  and 
then  fell  in  a  swound. 

On  the  banker  man,  the  teller,  who  was  in  hopeless 
love  with  Ailie,  as  was  plain  from  the  way  he  devoted 
himself  to  Bell. 

On  Mr.  Dyce's  old  retired  partner,  Mr.  Cleland,  who 
smelt  of  cloves  and  did  not  care  for  tea. 

On  P.  &  A.  MacGlashan,  who  had  come  in  specially 
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to  see  if  the  stranger  knew  his  brother  Albert,  who, 
he  said,  was  "in  a  Somewhere-ville  in  Manitoba." 

On  the  Provost  and  his  lady,  who  were  very  old, 
and  petted  each  other  when  they  thought  themselves 
unobserved. 

On  the  soft,  kind,  simple,  content  and  happy  ladies 
lately  married. 

On  the  others  who  would  like  to  be. 

Yes,  Bud  had  her  eye  on  them  all.  They  never 
guessed  how  much  they  entertained  her  as  they 
genteelly  sipped  their  tea,  or  wine,  or  ginger  cordial, 
— the  women  of  them — or  coughed  a  little  too  arti- 
ficially over  the  New- Year  glass — the  men. 

"Wee  Pawkie,  that's  what  she  is — just  Wee  Pawkie!" 
said  the  Provost  when  he  got  out,  and  so  far  it  summed 
up  everything. 

The  ladies  could  not  tear  away  home  fast  enough 
to  see  if  they  had  not  a  remnant  of  cloth  that  could 
be  made  into  such  a  lovely  dress  as  that  of  Dyce's 
niece  for  one  of  their  own  children.  "Mark  my 
words!"  they  said;  "that  child  will  be  ruined  between 
them.  She's  her  father's  image,  and  he  went  and 
married  a  poor  play-actress,  and  stayed  a  dozen  years 
away  from  Scotland,  and  never  wrote  home  a  line." 

So  many  people  came  to  the  house,  plainly  for  no 
reason  but  to  see  the  new-comer,  that  Ailie  at  last 
made  up  her  mind  to  satisfy  all  by  taking  her  out 
for  a  walk.  The  strange  thing  was  that  in  the  street 
the  populace  displayed  indifference  or  blindness.  Bud 
might  have  seen  no  more  sign  of  interest  in  her  than 
the  hurried  glance  of  a  passer-by;  no  step  slowed  to 
show  that  the  most  was  being  made  of  the  opportunity. 
There  had  been  some  women  at  their  windows  when 
she  came  out  of  the  house  sturdily  walking  by  Aunt 

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Ailie's  side,  with  her  hands  in  her  muff,  and  her  keen 
black  eyes  peeping  from  under  the  fur  of  her  hood; 
but  these  women  drew  in  their  heads  immediately. 
Ailie,  who  knew  her  native  town,  was  conscious  that 
from  behind  the  curtains  the  scrutiny  was  keen.  She 
smiled  to  herself  as  she  walked  demurely  down  the 
street. 

"Do  you  feel  anything,  Bud?"  she  asked. 

Bud  naturally  failed  to  comprehend. 

"You  ought  to  feel  something  at  your' back;  I'm 
ticklish  all  down  the  back  because  of  a  hundred  eyes." 

"I  know,"  said  the  astounding  child.  "They  think 
we  don't  notice,  but  I  guess  God  sees  them,"  and  yet 
she  had  apparently  never  glanced  at  the  windows 
herself,  nor  looked  round  to  discover  passers-by  staring 
over  their  shoulders  at  her  aunt  and  her. 

For  a  moment  Ailie  .felt  afraid.  She  dearly  loved 
a  quick  perception,  but  it  was  a  gift,  she  felt,  a  niece 
might  have  too  young. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  know  that,  Bud?" 
she  asked. 

"I  just  guessed  they'd  be  doing  it,"  said  Bud, 
"'cause  it's  what  I  would  do  if  I  saw  a  little  girl  from 
Scotland  walking  down  the  lake  front  in  Chicago. 
Is  it  dreff'le  rude,  Aunt  Ailie?" 

"So  they  say,  so  they  say,"  said  her  aunt,  looking 
straight  forward,  with  her  shoulders  back  and  her 
eyes  level,  flushing  at  the  temples.  "But  I'm  afraid 
we  can't  help  it.  It's  undignified — to  be  seen  doing 
it.  I  can  see  you're  a  real  Dyce,  Bud.  The  other 
people  who  are  not  Dyces  lose  a  great  deal  of  fun. 
They  must  be  very  much  bored  with  each  other.  Do 
you  know,  child,  I  think  you  and  I  are  going  to  be  great 
friends — you  and  I  and  Aunt  Bell  and  Uncle  Dan."- 

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"And  the  Mosaic  dog,"  added  Bud  with  warmth. 
"I  love  that  old  dog  so  much  that  I  could — I  could 
eat  him.  He's  the  becomingest  dog!  Why,  here  he 
is!"  And  it  was  indeed  Footles  who  hurled  himself 
at  them,  a  rapturous  mass  of  unkempt  hair  and  con- 
vulsive barkings,  having  escaped  from  the  imprison- 
ment of  Kate's  kitchen  by  climbing  over  her  shoulders 
and  out  across  the  window-sash. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  ¥  HEARD  all  about  you  and  Auntie  Bell  and  Uncle 

1  Dan  from  pop — from  father,"  said  Bud,  as  they 
walked  back  to  the  house.  She  had  learned  already 
from  example  how  sweeter  sounded  "father"  than 
the  term  she  had  used  in  America.  "He  was  mighty 
apt  to  sit  up  nights  talking  about  you  all.  But  I  don't 
quite  place  Kate:  he  never  mentioned  Kate." 

"Oh,  she's  a  new  addition,"  explained  Ailie.  "Kate 
is  the  maid,  you  know:  she  came  to  us  long  after  your 
father  left  home,  but  she's  been  with  us  five  years  now, 
and  that's  long  enough  to  make  her  one  of  the  family." 

"My!  Five  years!  She  ain't — she  isn't  much  of 
a  quitter,  is  she?  I  guess  you  must  have  tacked  her 
down,"  said  Bud.  "You  don't  get  helps  in  Chicago 
to  linger  round  the  dear  old  spot  like  that;  they  get 
all  hot  running  from  base  to  base,  same  as  if  it  was 
a  game  of  ball.  But  she's  a  pretty — pretty  broad 
girl,  isn't  she?  She  couldn't  run  very  fast;  that'll  be 
the  way  she  stays." 

Ailie  smiled.  "Ah!  So  that's  Chicago,  too,  is  it? 
You  must  have  been  in  the  parlor  a  good  many  times 
at  five-o'clock  tea  to  have  grasped  the  situation  at  your 
age.  I  suppose  your  Chicago  ladies  lower  the  tem- 
perature of  their  tea  weeping  into  it  the  woes  they  have 
about  their  domestics?  It's  another  Anglo-Saxon 
link." 

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"Mrs.  Jim  said  sensible  girls  that  would  stay  long 
enough  to  cool  down  after  the  last  dash  were  getting 
that  scarce  you  had  to  go  out  after  them  with  a  gun. 
You  didn't  really,  you  know;  that  was  just  Mrs.  Jim's 
way  of  putting  it." 

"I  understand,"  said  Alison,  unable  to  hide  her 
amusement.  "You  seem  to  have  picked  up  that  way 
of  putting  it  yourself." 

"Am  I  speaking  slang?"  asked  the  child,  glancing 
up  quickly  and  reddening.  "Father  pro — prosisted 
I  wasn't  to  speak  slang  nor  chew  gum;  he  said  it 
was  things  no  real  lady  would  do  in  the  old  country, 
and  that  I  was  to  be  a  well-off  English  undefied.  You 
must  be  dreff'le  shocked,  Auntie  Ailie?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Ailie  cheerfully;  "I  never  was  shocked 
in  all  my  life,  though  they  say  I'm  a  shocker  myself. 
I'm  only  surprised  a  little  at  the  possibilities  of  the 
English  language.  I've  hardly  heard  you  use  a  word 
of  slang  yet,  and  still  you  scarcely  speak  a  sentence  in 
which  there's  not  some  novelty.  It's  like  Kate's  first 
attempt  at  sheep's-head  broth:  we  were  familiar  with 
all  the  ingredients  except  the  horns,  and  we  knew 
them  elsewhere." 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  said  Bud,  relieved.  "But 
Mrs.  Jim  had  funny  ways  of  putting  things,  and  I 
s'pose  I  picked  them  up.  I  can't  help  it — I  pick  up 
so  fast.  Why,  I  had  scarlatina  twice!  and  I  picked 
up  her  way  of  zaggerating:  often  I  zaggerate  dreff'le, 
and  say  I  wrote  all  the  works  of  Shakespeare,  when  I 
really  didn't,  you  know.  Mrs.  Jim  didn't  mean  that 
she  had  to  go  out  hunting  for  helps  with  a  gun;  all 
she  meant  was  that  they  were  getting  harder  and 
harder  to  get,  and  mighty  hard  to  keep  when  you 
got  them." 

So 


BUD 

"I  know,"  said  Alison.  "It's  an  old  British  story, 
you'll  hear  it  often  from  our  visitors,  if  you're  spared. 
But  we're  lucky  with  our  Kate;  we  seem  to  give  her 
complete  satisfaction,  or,  at  all  events,  she  puts  up 
with  us.  When  she  feels  she  can't  put  up  with  us  any 
longer,  she  hvrls  herself  on  the  morning  newspaper  to 
look  at  the  advertisements  for  ladies'-maids  and  house- 
keepers with  £50  a  year,  and  makes  up  her  mind  to 
apply  at  once,  but  can  never  find  a  pen  that  suits  her 
before  we  make  her  laugh.  The  servant  in  the  house 
of  Dyce  who  laughs  is  lost.  You'll  like  Kate,  Bud. 
We  like  her ;  and  I  notice  that  if  you  like  anybody  they 
generally  like  you  back." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Bud,  with  enthusiasm.  "If 
there's  one  thing  under  the  canopy  I  am,  I'm  a  liker." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  house  without 
seeing  the  slightest  sign  that  the  burgh  was  interested 
in  them,  but  they  were  no  sooner  in  than  a  hundred 
tongues  were  discussing  the  appearance  of  the  little 
American.  Ailie  took  off  Bud's  cloak  and  hood,  and 
pushed  her  into  the  kitchen,  with  a  whisper  to  her 
that  she  was  to  make  Kate's  acquaintance,  and  be 
sure  and  praise  her  scones,  then  left  her-  and  flew  up- 
stairs, with  a  pleasant  sense  of  personal  good-luck. 
It  was  so  sweet  to  know  that  brother  William's  child 
was  anything  but  a  diffy. 

Bud  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  kitchen,  bashful, 
for  it  must  not  be  supposed  she  lacked  a  childish  shy- 
ness. Kate,  toasting  bread  at  the  fire,  turned  round 
and  felt  a  little  blate  herself,  but  smiled  at  her,  such  a 
fine  expansive  smile,  it  was  bound  to  put  the  child 
at  ease.  "Come  away  in,  my  dear,  and  take  a  bite," 
said  the  maid.  It  is  so  they  greet  you — simple  folk! 
— in  the  isle  of  Colonsay. 

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The  night  was  coming  on,  once  more  with  snowy 
feathers.  Wanton  Wully  lit  the  town.  He  went  from 
lamp  to  lamp  with  a  ladder,  children  in  his  train 
chanting: 

" '  Leerie,  leerie,  light  the  lamps. 
Long  legs  and  crooked  shanks!' " 

and  he  expostulating  with:  "I  know  you  fine,  the 
whole  of  you;  at  least  I  know  the  boys.  Stop  you 
till  I  see  your  mothers!"  Miss  Minto's  shop  was  open, 
and  shamefaced  lads  went  dubiously  in  to  buy  ladies' 
white  gloves,  for  with  gloves  they  tryst  their  partners 
here  at  New  Year  balls,  and  to-night  was  Samson's 
fiddle  giggling  at  the  inn.  The  long  tenement  lands, 
as  flat  and  high  as  cliffs,  and  built  for  all  eternity,  at 
first  dark  gray  in  the  dusk,  began  to  glow  in  every 
window,  and  down  the  stairs  and  from  the  closes 
flowed  exceeding  cheerful  sounds.  Green  fires  of 
wood  and  coal  sent  up  a  cloud  above  these  dwellings, 
tea-kettles  jigged  and  sang.  A  thousand  things  were 
happening  in  the  street,  but  for  once  the  maid  of 
Colonsay  restrained  her  interest  in  the  window.  "Tell 
me  this,  what  did  you  say  your  name  was?"  she 
asked. 

"I'm  Miss  Lennox  Brenton  Dyce,"  said  Bud,  primly, 
"but  the  miss  don't  amount  to  much  till  I'm  old 
enough  to  get  my  hair  up." 

"You  must  be  tired  coming  so  far.  All  the  way 
from  that  Chickagoo!" 

"Chicago,"  suggested  Bud,  politely. 

"Just  that!  Chickagoo  or  Chicago,  it  depends  on 
the  way  you  spell  it,"  said  Kate,  readily.  "I  was 
brought  up  to  call  it  Chickagoo.  What  a  length  to 
come  on  New  Year's  Day!  Were  you  not  frightened? 

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BUD 

Try  one  of  them  brown  biscuits.     And  how  are  all  the 
people  keeping  in  America?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  such  tender  solicitude 
that  Bud  saw  no  humor  in  it,  and  answered  gravely: 

"Pretty  spry,  thank  you.     Have  you  been  there?" 

"Me!"  cried  Kate,  with  her  bosom  heaving  at  the 
very  thought.  Then  her  Highland  vanity  came  to 
her  rescue.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  have  not  been  exactly 
what  you  might  call  altogether  there,  but  I  had  a  cousin 
that  started  for  Australia  and  got  the  length  of  Paisley. 
It  '11  be  a  big  place,  America?  Put  butter  on  it." 

"The  United  States  of  America  are  bounded  on 
the  east  by  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  on  the  west  by  the 
Pacific,  on  the  south  by  Mexico  and  the  Gulf,  and  on 
the  north  by  an  imaginary  line  called  Canada.  The 
State  of  New  York  alone  is  as  large  as  England,"  said 
Bud,  glibly,  repeating  a  familiar  lesson. 

"What  a  size!"  cried  Kate.  "Take  another  of  them 
brown  biscuits.  Scotland's  not  slack  neither  for  size; 
there's  Glasgow  and  Oban,  and  Colonsay  and  Stornoway. 
There'll  not  be  hills  in  America?" 

"There's  no  hills,  just  mountains,"  said  Bud.  "The 
chief  mountain  ranges  are  the  Rocky  Mountains  and 
the  Alleghanies.  They're  about  the  biggest  mountains 
in  the  world." 

"Talking  about  big  things,  look  at  the  big  penny- 
worth of  milk  we  get  here,"  said  Kate,  producing  a 
can — it  was  almost  the  last  ditch  of  her  national  pride. 

The  child  looked  gravely  into  the  can,  and  then 
glanced  shrewdly  at  the  maid. 

"It  isn't  a  pennyworth,"  said  she,  sharply,  "it's  two- 
pence worth." 

"My  stars!  how  did  you  know  that?"  said  Kate, 
much  taken  aback. 

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BUD 

"  'Cause  you're  bragging.  Think  I  don't  know  when 
anybody's  bragging?"  said  Bud.  "And  when  a  body 
brags  about  a  place  or  anything,  they  zaggerate,  and 
just  about  double  things." 

"You're  not  canny,"  said  Kate,  thrusting  the  milk- 
can  back  hastily  on  the  kitchen  dresser.  "Don't  spare 
the  butter  on  your  biscuit.  They  tell  me  there's  plenty 
of  money  in  America.  I  would  not  wonder,  eh?" 

"Why,  everybody's  got  money  to  throw  at  the 
birds  there,"  said  Bud,  with  some  of  the  accent  as 
well  as  the  favorite  phrase  of  Jim  Molyneux. 

"They  have  little  to  do;  forbye,  it's  cruelty.  Mind 
you,  there's  plenty  of  money  here,  too ;  your  uncle  has 
a  desperate  lot  of  it.  He  was  wanting  to  go  away  to 
America  and  bring  you  home  whenever  he  heard — 
whenever  he  heard —  Will  you  not  try  another  of  them 
biscuits?  It  will  do  you  no  harm." 

"I  know,"  said  Bud,  gravely — "whenever  he  heard 
about  my  father  being  dead." 

"I  think  we're  sometimes  very  stupid,  us  from 
Colonsay,"  said  the  maid,  regretfully.  "I  should  have 
kept  my  mouth  shut  about  your  father.  Take  two 
biscuits,  my  dear;  or  maybe  you  would  rather  have 
short-cake.  Yes,  he  was  for  going  there  and  then — even 
if  it  cost  a  pound,  I  dare  say — but  changed  his  mind 
when  he  heard  yon  man  Molyneux  was  bringing  you." 

Footles,  snug  in  the  child's  lap,  shared  the  biscuits 
and  barked  for  more. 

"'I  love  little  Footles, 

His  coat  is  so  warm, 
And  if  I  don't  tease  him 
He'll  do  me  no  harm,' " 

said  Bud,  burying  her  head  in  his  mane. 

54 


BUD 

"Good  Lord!  did  you  make  that  yourself,  or  just 
keep  mind  of  it?"  asked  the  astounded  Kate. 

"I  made  it  just  right  here,"  said  Bud,  coolly.  "Didn't 
you  know  I  could  make  poetry?  Why,  you  poor,  per- 
ishing soul,  I'm  just  a  regular  wee — wee  whitterick  at 
poetry!  It  goes  sloshing  round  in  my  head,  and  it's 
simply  pie  for  me  to  make  it.  Here's  another: 

" '  Lives  of  great  men  oft  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time.' 

I  just  dash  them  off.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  get  up 
bright  and  early  to-morrow  and  touch  that  one  up 
some.  Mostly  you  can't  make  them  good  the  first 
try,  and  then  you're  bound  to  go  all  over  them  from 
the  beginning  and  put  the  good  in  here  and  there. 
That's  art,  Jim  says.  He  knew  an  artist  who'd  finish 
a  picture  with  everything  quite  plain  about  it,  and  then 
say,  'Now  for  the  art!'  and  fuzz  it  all  over  with  a  hard 
brush." 

"My  stars,  what  things  you  know!"  exclaimed  the 
maid.  "You're  clever — tremendous  clever!  What's 
your  age?" 

"I  was  born  mighty  well  near  eleven  years  ago,"  said 
Bud,  as  if  she  were  a  centenarian. 

Now  it  is  not  wise  to  tell  a  child  like  Lennox  Dyce 
that  she  is  clever,  though  a  maid  from  Colonsay  could 
scarcely  be  expected  to  know  that.  Till  Bud  had 
landed  on  the  British  shore  she  had  no  reason  to  think 
herself  anything  out  of  the  ordinary.  Jim  Molyneux 
and  his  wife,  with  no  children  of  their  own,  and  no 
knowledge  of  children  except  the  elderly  kind  that 
play  in  theatres,  had  treated  her  like  a  person  little 

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BUD 

younger  than  themselves,  and  saw  no  marvel  in  her 
quickness,  that  is  common  enough  with  Young  America. 
But  Bud,  from  Maryfield  to  her  uncle's  door,  had  been 
a  "caution"  to  the  plainly  admiring  mail-driver;  a 
kind  of  fairy  princess  to  Wanton  Wully  Oliver  and  his 
wife;  the  surprise  of  her  aunts  had  been  only  half  con- 
cealed, and  here  was  the  maid  in  an  undisguised  en- 
chantment! The  vanity  of  the  ten-year-old  was  stimu- 
lated; for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  decidedly 
superior. 

"It  was  very  brave  of  me  to  come  all  this  way  in 
a  ship  at  ten  years  old,"  she  proceeded. 

"I  once  came  to  Oban  along  with  a  steamer  my- 
self," said  Kate,  "but  och,  that's  nothing,  for  I  knew 
a  lot  of  the  drovers.  Just  fancy  you  coming  from 
America!  Were  you  not  lonely?" 

"I  was  dre'ffle  lonely,"  said  Bud,  who,  in  fact,  had 
never  known  a  moment's  dulness  across  the  whole 
Atlantic.  "There  was  I  leaving  my  native  land,  per- 
haps never  to  set  eyes  on  its  shores  evermore,  and 
coming  to  a  far  country  I  didn't  know  the  least  thing 
about.  I  was  leaving  all  my  dear  young  friends,  and 
the  beautiful  Mrs.  Molyneux,  and  her  faithful  dog 
Dodo,  and — "  Here  she  squeezed  a  tear  from  her  eyes, 
and  stopped  to  think  of  circumstances  even  more 
touching. 

"My  poor  wee  hen!"  cried  Kate,  distressed.  "Don't 
you  greet,  and  I'll  buy  you  something." 

"And  I  didn't  know  what  sort  of  uncle  and  aunties 
they  might  be  here  —  whether  they'd  be  cruel  and 
wicked  or  not,  or  whether  they'd  keep  me  or  not. 
Little  girls  most  always  have  cruel  uncles  and  aunties 
— you  can  see  that  in  the  books." 

"You  were  awful  stupid  about  that  bit  of  it,"  said 
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BUD 

the  maid,  emphatically.  "I'm  sure  anybody  could 
have  told  you  about  Mr.  Dyce  and  his  sisters." 

"And  then  it  was  so  stormy,"  proceeded  Bud, 
quickly,  in  search  of  more  moving  considerations. 
"I  made  a  poem  about  that,  too — I  just  dashed  it 
off;  the  first  verse  goes: 

" '  The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast—' 

but  I  forget  the  rest,  'cept  that 

"  '  — they  come  to  wither  there 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land.* 

The  waves  were  mountains  high,  and  whirled  over 
the  deck,  and — " 

"My  goodness,  you  would  get  all  wet!"  said  Kate, 
putting  her  hand  on  Bud's  shoulder  to  feel  if  she  were 
dry  yet.  Honest  tears  were  in  her  own  eyes  at  the 
thought  of  such  distressing  affairs. 

"The  ship  at  last  struck  on  a  rock,"  proceeded  Bud, 
"so  the  captain  lashed  me — " 

"I  would  lash  him,  the  villain!"  cried  the  indignant 
maid. 

"I  don't  mean  that;  he  tied  me — that's  lash  in 
books — to  the  mast,  and  then — and  then — well,  then 
we  waited  calmly  for  the  end,"  said  Bud,  at  the  last 
of  her  resources  for  ocean  tragedy. 

Kate's  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks  at 
this  conjured  vision  of  youth  in  dire  distress.  "Oh, 
dear!  oh,  dear!  my  poor  wee  hen!"  she  sobbed.  "I'm 
so  sorry  for  you." 

"Bud!  coo-ie!  coo-ie!"  came  the  voice  of  Aunt  Ailie 
along  the  lobby,  but  Bud  was  so  entranced  with  the 

57 


BUD 

effect  of  her  imaginings  that  she  paid  no  heed,  and 
Kate's  head  was  wrapped  in  her  apron. 

"Don't  cry,  Kate;  I  wouldn't  cry  if  I  was  you," 
said  the  child  at  last,  soothingly.  "Maybe  it's  not 
true." 

"I'll  greet  if  I  like,"  insisted  the  maid.  "Fancy 
you  in  that  awful  shipwreck!  It's  enough  to  scare 
anybody  from  going  anywhere.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!" 
and  she  wept  more  copiously  than  ever. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Bud  again.  "It's  silly  to  drizzle 
like  that.  Why,  great  Queen  of  Sheba!  I  was  only 
joshing  you:  it  was  as  calm  on  that  ship  as  a  milk 
sociable." 

Kate  drew  down  the  apron  from  her  face  and 
stared  at  her.  Her  meaning  was  only  half  plain,  but 
it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  things  had  not  been  quite 
so  bad  as  she  first  depicted  them.  "A  body's  the 
better  of  a  bit  greet,  whiles,"  she  said,  philosophically, 
drying  her  eyes. 

"That's  what  I  say,"  agreed  Bud.  "That's  why  I 
told  you  all  that.  Do  you  know,  child,  I  think  you 
and  I  are  going  to  be  great  friends."  She  said  this 
with  the  very  tone  and  manner  of  Alison,  whose  words 
they  were  to  herself,  and  turned  round  hastily  and  em- 
barrassed at  a  laugh  behind  her  to  find  her  aunt  had 
heard  herself  thus  early  imitated. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IF  Molyneux,  the  actor,  was  to  blame  for  sending 
this  child  of  ten  on  her  journey  into  Scotland  without 
convoy,  how  much  worse  was  his  offence  that  he  sent 
no  hint  of  her  character  to  the  house  of  Dyce?  She 
was  like  the  carpet-bag  George  Jordon  found  at  the 
inn  door  one  day  without  a  name  on  it,  and,  saying, 
"There's  nothing  like  thrift  in  a  family,"  took  home 
immediately,  to  lament  over  for  a  week  because  he 
had  not  the  key  to  open  it.  There  should  have  been 
a  key  to  Lennox  Brenton  Dyce,  but  Molyneux,  a  man 
of  post-cards  and  curt  and  cryptic  epistles  generally, 
never  thought  of  that,  so  that  it  took  some  days  for 
the  folk  she  came  among  to  pick  the  lock.  There  was 
fun  in  the  process,  it  cannot  be  denied,  but  that  was 
because  the  Dyces  were  the  Dyces;  had  they  been 
many  another  folk  she  might  have  been  a  mystery  for 
years,  and  in  the  long-run  spoiled  completely.  Her 
mother  had  been  a  thousand  women  in  her  time — 
heroines  good  and  evil,  fairies,  princesses,  paupers, 
maidens,  mothers,  shy  and  bold,  plain  or  beautiful, 
young  or  old,  as  the  play  of  the  week  demanded — 
a  play-actress,  in  a  word.  And  now  she  was  dead  and 
buried,  the  bright,  white  lights  on  her  no  more,  the 
music  and  the  cheering  done.  But  not  all  dead  and 
buried,  for  some  of  her  was  in  her  child. 

Bud  was  born  a  mimic.     I  tell  you  this  at  once, 
59 


BUD 

because  so  many  inconsistencies  will  be  found  in  her 
I  should  otherwise  look  foolish  to  present  her  portrait 
for  a  piece  of  veritable  life.  Not  a  mimic  of  voice 
and  manner  only,  but  a  mimic  of  people's  minds,  so 
that  for  long  —  until  the  climax  came  that  was  to 
change  her  when  she  found  herself — she  was  the  echo 
and  reflection  of  the  last  person  she  spoke  with.  She 
borrowed  minds  and  gestures  as  later  she  borrowed 
Grandma  Buntain's  pelerine  and  bonnet.  She  could 
be  all  men  and  all  women  except  the  plainly  dull  or 
wicked — but  only  on  each  occasion  for  a  little  while; 
by-and-by  she  was  herself  again. 

And  so  it  was  that  for  a  day  or  two  she  played  with 
the  phrase  and  accent  of  Wanton  Wully  Oliver,  or 
startled  her  aunts  with  an  unconscious  rendering  of 
Kate's  Highland  accent,  her  "My  stars!"  and  "Mercy 
me's!"  and  "My  wee  hens!" 

The  daft  days  (as  we  call  New  Year  time)  passed — 
the  days  of  careless  merriment,  that  were  but  the  start 
of  Bud's  daft  days,  that  last  with  all  of  us  for  years 
if  we  are  lucky.  The  town  was  settling  down;  the 
schools  were  opening  on  Han'sel  Monday,  and  Bud 
was  going — not  to  the  grammar-school  after  all,  but 
to  the  Pigeons'  Seminary.  Have  patience,  and  by- 
and-by  I  will  tell  about  the  Pigeons. 

Bell  had  been  appalled  to  find  the  child,  at  the  age 
of  ten,  apparently  incredibly  neglected  in  her  education. 

"Of  course  you  would  be  at  some  sort  of  school 
yonder  in  America?"  she  had  said  at  an  early  oppor- 
tunity, not  hoping  for  much,  but  ready  to  learn  of 
some  hedge-row  academy  in  spite  of  all  the  papers 
said  of  Yales  and  Harvards  and  the  like. 

"No,  I  never  was  at  school;  I  was  just  going  when 
father  died,"  said  Bud,  sitting  on  a  sofa  wrapped  in 

60 


BUD 

a  cloak  of  Ailie's,  feeling  extremely  tall  and  beautiful 
and  old. 

"What!  Do  you  sit  there  and  tell  me  they  did  not 
send  you  to  school?"  cried  her  aunt,  so  stunned  that 
the  child  delighted  in  her  power  to  startle  and  amaze. 
"That's  America  for  you!  Ten  years  old  and  not  the 
length  of  your  alphabets! — it's  what  one  might  expect 
from  a  heathen  land  of  niggers,  and  lynchers,  and 
presidents.  I  was  the  best  sewer  and  speller  in  Miss 
Mushet's  long  before  I  was  ten.  My  lassie,  let  me  tell 
you  you  have  come  to  a  country  where  you'll  get  your 
education!  We  would  make  you  take  it  at  its  best  if 
we  had  to  live  on  meal.  Look  at  your  auntie  Ailie — 
French  and  German,  and  a  hand  like  copperplate;  it's 
a  treat  to  see  her  at  the  old  scrutoire,  no  way  put-about, 
composing.  Just  goes  at  it  like  lightning!  I  do  de- 
clare if  your  uncle  Dan  was  done,  Ailie  could  carry  on 
the  business,  all  except  the  aliments  and  sequestrations. 
It  beats  all !  Ten  years  old  and  not  to  know  the  ABC!" 

"Oh,  but  I  do,"  said  Bud,  quickly.  "I  learned  the 
alphabet  off  the  play-bills — the  big  G's  first,  because 
there's  so  many  Greats  and  Grand?  and  Gorgeouses 
in  them.  And  then  Mrs.  Molyneux  used  to  let  me 
try  to  read  Jim's  press  notices.  She  read  them  first 
every  morning  sitting  up  in  bed  at  breakfast,  and 
said,  'My!  wasn't  he  a  great  man?'  and  then  she'd 
cry  a  little,  'cause  he  never  got  justice  from  the  man- 
agers, for  they  were  all  mean  and  jealous  of  him. 
Then  she'd  spray  herself  with  the  peau  d'espagne  and 
eat  a  cracker.  And  the  best  papers  there  was  in  the 
land  said  the  part  of  the  butler  in  the  second  act  was 
well  filled  by  Mr.  Jim  Molyneux;  or  among  others  in 
a  fine  cast  were  J.  Molyneux,  Ralph  Devereux,  and 
O.  G.  Tarpoll." 

s  61 


BUD 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  my  poor 
wee  whitterick;  but  it's  all  haivers,"  said  Miss  Bell. 
"Can  you  spell?" 

"If  the  words  are  not  too  big,  or  silly  ones  where 
it's  cei'  or  'ie'  and  you  have  to  guess,"  said  Bud. 

"Spell  cat." 

Bud  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"Spell  cat,"  repeated  her  aunt. 

"K-a-t-t,"  said  Bud  (oh,  naughty  Bud!). 

"Mercy!"  cried  Bell,  with  horrified  hands  in  the 
air.  "Off  you  pack  to-morrow  to  the  seminary.  I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  you  did  not  know  a  single  word 
of  the  Shorter  Catechism.  Perhaps  they  have  not 
such  a  thing  in  that  awful  heathen  land  you  came 
from?" 

Bud  could  honestly  say  she  had  never  heard  of  the 
Shorter  Catechism. 

"My  poor,  neglected  bairn,"  said  her  aunt,  pite- 
ously,  "you're  sitting  there  in  the  dark  with  no  con- 
viction of  sin,  and  nothing  bothering  you,  and  you 
might  be  dead  to-morrow!  Mind  this,  that  'Man's 
chief  end  is  to  glorify  God,  and  to  enjoy  Him  forever.' 
Say  that." 

"'Man's  chief  end  is  to  glorify  God,  and  to  enjoy 
Him  forever,'"  repeated  Bud,  obediently,  rolling  her 
r's  and  looking  solemn  like  her  aunt. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Robert  Bruce,  him  that 
watched  the  spiders?" 

Here,  too,  the  naughty  Bud  protested  ignorance. 

"He  was  the  savior  of  his  country,"  said  Bell. 
"Mind  that!" 

"Why,  auntie,  I  thought  it  was  George  Washing- 
ton," said  Bud,  surprised.  "I  guess  if  you're  looking 
for  a  little  wee  stupid,  it's  me." 

62 


BUD 

* 

"We're  talking  about  Scotland,"  said  Miss  Bell, 
severely.  "He  saved  Scotland.  It  was  well  worth 
while!  Can  you  do  your  sums?" 

"  I  can  not"  said  Bud,  emphatically.    "  I  hate  them." 

Miss  Bell  said  not  a  word  more;  she  was  too  dis- 
tressed at  such  confessed  benightedness;  but  she 
went  out  of  the  parlor  to  search  for  Ailie.  Bud  forgot 
she  was  beautiful  and  tall  and  old  in  Ailie's  cloak; 
she  was  repeating  to  herself  "  Man's  chief  end  "  with 
rolling  r's,  and  firmly  fixing  in  her  memory  the  fact 
that  Robert  Bruce,  not  George  Washington,  was  the 
savior  of  his  country  and  watched  spiders. 

Ailie  was  out,  and  so  her  sister  found  no  ear  for 
her  bewailings  over  the  child's  neglected  education 
till  Mr.  Dyce  came  in  humming  the  tune  of  the  day 
— "Sweet  Afton" — to  change  his  hat  for  one  more 
becoming  to  a  sitting  of  the  sheriff's  court.  He  was 
searching  for  his  good  one  in  what  he  was  used  to  call 
"the  piety  press,"  for  there  was  hung  his  Sunday 
clothes,  when  Bell  distressfully  informed  him  that  the 
child  could  not  so  much  as  spell  cat. 

"Nonsense!  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  he.  "That 
would  be  very  unlike  our  William." 

"It's  true— I  tried  her  myself!"  said  Bell.  "She 
was  never  at  a  school;  isn't  it  just  deplorable?" 

"H'm!"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  "it  depends  on  the  way 
you  look  at  it,  Bell." 

"She  does  not  know  a  word  of  her  catechism,  nor 
the  name  of  Robert  Bruce,  and  says  she  hates  counting." 

"Hates  counting!"  repeated  Mr.  Dyce,  wonderfully 
cheering  up;  "that's  hopeful;  it  reminds  me  of  myself. 
Forbye  its  gey  like  Brother  William.  His  way  of  count- 
ing was  'one  pound,  ten  shillings  in  my  pocket,  two 
pounds  that  I'm  owing  some  one,  and  ten  shillings  I  get 

63 


BUD 
I 

to-morrow — that's  five  pounds  I  have;  what  will  I  buy 
you  now?'  The  worst  of  arithmetic  is  that  it  leaves 
nothing  to  the  imagination.  Two  and  two's  four  and 
you're  done  with  it;  there's  no  scope  for  either  fun  or 
fancy  as  there  might  be  if  the  two  and  two  went 
courting  in  the  dark  and  swapped  their  partners  by  an 
accident." 

"I  wish  you  would  go  in  and  speak  to  her,"  said 
Bell,  distressed  still,  "and  tell  her  what  a  lot  she  has 
to  learn." 

"What,  me!"  cried  Uncle  Dan,  "excuse  my  gram- 
mar," and  he  laughed.  "It's  an  imprudent  kind  of 
mission  for  a  man  with  all  his  knowledge  in  little 
patches.  I  have  a  lot  to  learn,  myself,  Bell;  it  takes 
me  all  my  time  to  keep  the  folk  I  meet  from  finding 
out  the  fact." 

But  he  went  in  humming,  Bell  behind  him,  and 
found  the  child  still  practising  ''Man's  chief  end,"  so 
engrossed  in  the  exercise  she  never  heard  him  enter. 
He  crept  behind  her,  and  put  his  hands  over  her  eyes. 

"Guess  who,"  said  he,  in  a  shrill  falsetto. 

"It's  Robert  Bruce,"  said  Bud,  without  moving. 

"No  —  cold  —  cold!  —  guess  again,"  said  her  uncle, 
growling  like  Giant  Blunderbore. 

"I'll  mention  no  names,"  said  she,  "but  it's  mighty 
like  Uncle  Dan." 

He  stood  in  front  of  her  and  put  on  a  serious  face. 
"What's  this  I  am  hearing,  Miss  Lennox,"  said  he, 
"about  a  little  girl  who  doesn't  know  a  lot  of  things 
nice  little  girls  ought  to  know?" 

"  '  Man's  chief  end  is  to  glorify  God,  and  to  enjoy  Him 
forever,'"  repeated  Bud,  reflectively.  "I've  got  that 
all  right,  but  what  does  it  mean?" 

"What  does  it  mean?"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  a  bit  taken 
64 


BUD 

aback.  "You  tell  her,  Bell;  what  does  it  mean?  I 
must  not  be  late  for  the  court." 

"You're  far  cleverer  than  I  am,"  said  Bell.  "Tell 
her  yourself." 

"It  means,"  said  Daniel  Dyce,  the  lawyer,  seating 
himself  on  the  sofa  beside  his  niece,  "that  man  in 
himself  is  a  gey  poor  soul,  no'  worth  a  pin,  though 
he's  apt  to  think  the  world  was  made  for  his  personal 
satisfaction.  At  the  best  he's  but  an  instrument — 
a  harp  of  a  thousand  strings  God  bends  to  hear  in  His 
leisure.  He  made  that  harp — the  heart  and  mind  of 
man — when  He  was  in  a  happy  hour.  Strings  hale 
and  strings  broken,  strings  slack  or  tight,  there  are 
all  kinds  of  them;  the  best  we  can  do's  to  be  taut 
and  trembling  for  the  gladness  of  God  who  loves 
fine  music,  and  set  the  stars  themselves  to  singing 
from  the  very  day  He  put  them  birling  in  the  void. 
To  glorify's  to  wonder  and  adore,  and  who  keeps  the 
wondering,  humble  heart,  the  adoring  eye,  is  to  God 
pleasing  exceedingly.  Sing,  lassie,  sing,  sing,  sing, 
inside  ye,  even  if  ye  are  as  timmer  as  a  cask.  God 
knows  I  have  not  much  of  a  voice  myself,  but  I'm 
full  of  nobler  airs  than  ever  crossed  my  rusty  thrapple. 
To  be  grateful  always,  and  glad  things  are  no  worse, 
is  a  good  song  to  start  the  morning." 

"Ah,  but  sin,  Dan,  sin!"  said  Bell,  sighing,  for  she 
always  feared  her  own  light-heartedness.  "We  may 
be  too  joco." 

"Say  ye  so?"  he  cried,  turning  to  his  sister  with 
a  flame  upon  his  visage.  "By  the  heavens  above  us, 
no!  Sin  might  have  been  eternal;  each  abominable 
thought  might  have  kept  in  our  minds,  constant  day 
and  night  from  the  moment  that  it  bred  there;  the 
theft  we  did  might  keep  everlastingly  our  hand  in 

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our  neighbor's  kist  as  in  a  trap;  the  knife  we  thrust 
with  might  have  kept  us  thrusting  forever  and  for- 
ever. But  no  —  God's  good!  sleep  comes,  and  the 
clean  morning,  and  the  morning  is  Christ,  and  every 
moment  of  time  is  a  new  opportunity  to  amend.  It 
is  not  sin  that  is  eternal,  it  is  righteousness  and  peace. 
Joco  !  We  cannot  be  too  joco,  having  our  inheri- 
tance." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  warned  by  a  glance  of  his 
sister's,  and  turned  to  look  in  his  niece's  face  to  find 
bewilderment  there.  The  mood  that  was  not  often 
published  by  Dan  Dyce  left  him  in  a  flash,  and  he 
laughed  and  put  his  arms  round  her. 

"I  hope  you're  a  lot  wiser  for  my  sermon,  Bud," 
said  he.  "I  can  see  you  have  pins  and  needles 
worse  than  under  the  Reverend  Mr.  Frazer  on  the 
Front.  What's  the  American  for  haivers — for  foolish 
speeches?" 

"Hot  air,"  said  Bud,  promptly. 

"Good!"  said  Dan  Dyce,  rubbing  his  hands  to- 
gether. "What  I'm  saying  may  seem  just  hot  air 
to  you,  but  it's  meant.  You  do  not  know  the  Shorter 
Catechism;  never  mind;  there's  a  lot  of  it  I'm  afraid 
I  do  not  know  myself;  but  the  whole  of  it  is  in  that 
first  answer  to  '  Man's  chief  end.'  Reading  and  writ- 
ing, and  all  the  rest  of  it,  are  of  less  importance,  but 
I'll  not  deny  they're  gey  and  handy.  You're  no  Dyce 
if  you  don't  master  them  easily  enough." 

He  kissed  her  and  got  gayly  up  and  turned  to  go. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "for  the  law,  seeing  we're  done  with 
the  gospels.  I'm  a  conveyancing  lawyer  —  though 
you'll  not  know  what  that  means — so  mind  me  in 
your  prayers." 

Bell  went  out  into  the  lobby  after  him,  leaving  Bud 
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in  a  curious  frame  of  mind,  for  "  Man's  chief  end," 
and  Bruce's  spider,  and  the  word  "joco,"  all  tumbled 
about  in  her,  demanding  mastery. 

"Little  help  I  got  from  you,  Dan!"  said  Bell  to  her 
brother.  "You  never  even  tried  her  with  a  multiplica- 
tion table." 

"What's  seven  times  nine?"  he  asked  her,  with  his 
fingers  on  the  handle  of  the  outer  door,  his  eyes  mock- 
ingly mischievous. 

She  flushed  and  laughed,  and  pushed  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "Go  away  with  you!"  said  she.  "Fine  you 
ken  I  could  never  mind  seven  times!" 

"No  Dyce  ever  could,"  said  he — •"excepting  Ailie. 
Get  her  to  put  the  little  creature  through  her  tests. 
If  she's  not  able  to  spell  cat  at  ten  she'll  be  an  as- 
tounding woman  by  the  time  she's  twenty." 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Aunt  Ailie,  whenever  she 
came  in,  upon  Bell's  report  went  over  the  street  to 
Rodger's  shop  and  made  a  purchase.  As  she  hurried 
back  with  it,  bareheaded,  in  a  cool  drizzle  of  rain 
that  jewelled  her  wonderful  hair,  she  felt  like  a  child 
herself  again.  The  banker-man  saw  her  from  his 
lodging  as  she  flew  across  the  street  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  eager  lips,  the  roses  on  her  cheeks,  and  was 
sure,  foolish  man!  that  she  had  been  for  a  new  novel 
or  maybe  a  cosmetic,  since  in  Rodger's  shop  they 
sell  books  and  balms  and  ointments.  She  made  the 
quiet  street  magnificent  for  a  second  —  a  poor  wee 
second,  and  then,  for  him,  the  sun  went  down.  The 
tap  of  the  knocker  on  the  door  she  closed  behind 
her  struck  him  on  the  heart.  You  may  guess,  good 
women,  if  you  like,  that  at  the  end  of  the  book  the 
banker-man  is  to  marry  Ailie,  but  you'll  be  wrong; 
she  was  not  thinking  of  the  man  at  all  at  all — she 

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had  more  to  do,,  she  was  hurrying  to  open  the  gate 
of  gold  to  her  little  niece. 

"I've  brought  you  something  wonderful,"  said  she 
to  the  child — "better  than  dolls,  better  than  my  cloak, 
better  than  everything;  guess  what  it  is." 

Bud  wrinkled  her  brows.  "Ah,  dear!"  she  sighed, 
"we  may  be  too  joco!  And  I'm  to  sing,  sing,  sing, 
even  if  I'm  as — timmer  as  a  cask,  and  Robert  Bruce 
is  the  savior  of  his  country."  She  marched  across 
the  room,  trailing  Ailie's  cloak  with  her,  in  an  absurd 
caricature  of  Bell's  brisk  manner.  Yet  not  so  much 
the  actress  engrossed  in  her  performance,  but  what 
she  tried  to  get  a  glimpse  of  what  her  aunt  concealed. 

"You  need  not  try  to  see  it,"  said  Ailie,  smiling, 
with  the  secret  in  her  breast.  "You  must  honestly 
guess." 

"Better'n  dolls  and  candies;  oh,  my!"  said  Bud.  "I 
hope  it's  not  the  Shorter  Catechism,""  she  concluded, 
looking  so  grave  that  her  aunt  laughed. 

"It's  not  the  Catechism,"  said  Ailie;  "try  again. 
Oh,  but  you'll  never  guess!  It's  a  key." 

"A  key?"  repeated  Bud,  plainly  cast  down. 

"A  gold  key,"  said  her  aunt. 

"What  for?"  asked  Bud. 

Ailie  sat  herself  down  on  the  floor  and  drew  the 
child  upon  her  knees.  She  had  a  way  of  doing  that 
which  made  her  look  like  a  lass  in  her  teens;  indeed, 
it  was  most  pleasing  if  the  banker-man  could  just 
have  seen  it!  "A  gold  key,"  she  repeated,  lovingly, 
in  Bud's  ear.  "A  key  to  a  garden — the  loveliest 
garden,  with  flowers  that  last  the  whole  year  round. 
You  can  pluck  and  pluck  at  them  and  they're  never 
a  single  one  the  less.  Better  than  sweet-pease !  But 
that's  not  all,  there's  a  big  garden-party  to  be  at  it — " 

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"My!  I  guess  I'll  put  on  my  best  glad  rags,"  said 
Bud.  "And  the  hat  with  pink."  Then  a  fear  came 
to  her  face.  "Why,  Aunt  Ailie,  you  can't  have  a  gar- 
den-party this  time  of  the  year,"  and  she  looked  at  the 
window  down  whose  panes  the  rain  was  now  streaming. 

"This  garden-party  goes  on  all  the  time,''  said  Ailie. 
"Who  cares  about  the  weather?  Only  very  old  peo- 
ple; not  you  and  I.  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  lot  of  nice 
people — Di  Vernon,  and — you  don't  happen  to  know 
a  lady  called  Di  Vernon,  do  you,  Bud?" 

"  I  wouldn't  know  her  if  she  was  handed  to  me  on 
a  plate  with  parsley  trimmings,"  said  Bud,  promptly. 

" — Di  Vernon,  then,  and  Effie  Deans,  and  Little  Nell, 
and  the  Marchioness;  and  Richard  Swiveller,  and  Tom 
Pinch,  and  the  Cranford  folks,  and  Juliet  Capulet — " 

"She  must  belong  to  one  of  the  first  families,"  said 
Bud.  "  I  have  a  kind  of  idea  that  I  have  heard  of  her." 

"And  Mr.  Falstaff — such  a  naughty  man,  but  nice, 
too!  And  Rosalind." 

"Rosalind!"  cried  Bud.  "You  mean  Rosalind  in 
'As  You  Like  It?'"  • 

Ailie  stared  at  her  with  astonishment.  "You  amaz- 
ing child!"  said  she,  "who  told  you  about  'As  You 
Like  It'?" 

"Nobody  told  me;  I  just  read  about  her  when  Jim 
was  learning  the  part  of  Charles  the  Wrestler  he  played 
on  six  'secutive  nights  in  the  Waldorf." 

"Read  it!"  exclaimed  her  aunt.  "You  mean  he  or 
Mrs.  Molyneux  read  it  to  you." 

"No,  I  read  it  myself,"  said  Bud. 

1 ' '  Now  my  co-mates  and  brothers  in  exile, 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court?"' 
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She  threw  Aunt  Ailie's  cloak  over  one  shoulder,  put 
forth  a  ridiculously  little  leg  with  an  air  of  the  play- 
house, and  made  the  gestures  of  Jim  Molyneux. 

"I  thought  you  couldn't  read,"  said  Ailie.  "You 
little  fraud!  You  made  Aunt  Bell  think  you  couldn't 
spell  cat." 

"Oh,  Queen  of  Sheba!  did  she  think  I  was  in  earnest  ?" 
cried  Bud.  "I  was  just  pretending.  I'm  apt  to  be 
pretending  pretty  often;  why,  Kate  thinks  I  make 
Works.  I  can  read  anything;  I've  read  books  that  big 
it  gave  you  cramp.  I  s'pose  you  were  only  making 
believe  about  that  garden,  and  you  haven't  any  key  at 
all,  but  I  don't  mind;  I'm  not  kicking." 

Ailie  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  revealed  the 
Twopenny  she  had  bought  to  be  the  key  to  the  won- 
derful garden  of  letters — the  slim  little  gray-paper- 
covered  primer  in  which  she  had  learned  her  own  first 
lessons.  She  held  it  up  between  her  finger  and  thumb 
that  Bud  might  read  its  title  on  the  cover.  Bud  un- 
derstood immediately  and  laughed,  but  not  quite  at 
her  ease  for  once. 

"I'm  dre'ffle  sorry,  Aunt  Ailie,"  she  said.  "It  was 
wicked  to  pretend  just  like  that,  and  put  you  to  a  lot 
of  trouble.  Father  wouldn't  have  liked  that." 

"Ou,  I'm  not  kicking,"  said  Ailie,  borrowing  her 
phrase  to  put  her  at  her  ease  again.  "I'm  too  glad 
you're  not  so  far  behind  as  Aunt  Bell  imagined.  So 
you  like  books?  Capital!  And  Shakespeare  no  less! 
What  do  you  like  best,  now?'" 

"Poetry,"  said  Bud.  "Particularly  the  bits  I  don't 
understand,  but  just  about  almost.  I  can't  bear  to 
stop  and  dally  with  too  easy  poetry;  once  I  know 
it  all  plain  and  there's  no  more  to  it,  I — I — I  love  to 
amble  on.  I — why!  I  make  poetry  myself." 

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"Really?"  said  Ailie,  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"Sort  of  poetry,"  said  Bud.  "Not  so  good  as  'As 
You  Like  It' — not  nearly  so  good,  of  course!  I  have 
loads  of  really,  really  poetry  inside  me,  but  it  sticks 
at  the  bends  and  then  I  get  bits  that  fit,  made  by  some- 
body else,  and  wish  I  had  been  spry  and  said  th^m 
first.  Other  times  I'm  the  real  Winifred  Wallace." 

"Winifred  Wallace?"  said  Aunt  Ailie,  inquiringly. 

"Winifred  Wallace,"  repeated  Bud,  composedly. 
"I'm  her.  It's  my — it's  my  poetry  name.  'Bud 
Dyce'  wouldn't  be  any  use  for  the  magazines;  it's  not 
dinky  enough." 

"Bless  me,  child,  you  don't  tell  me  you  write  poetry 
for  the  magazines?"  said  her  astonished  aunt. 

"No,"  said  Bud,  "but  I'll  be  pretty  liable  to  when 
I'm  old  enough  to  wear  specs.  That's  if  I  don't  go  on 
the  stage." 

"On  the  stage!"  exclaimed  Ailie,  full  of  wild  alarm. 

"Yes,"  said  the  child.  "Mrs.  Molyneux  said  I  was 
a  born  actress." 

"I  wonder,  I  wonder,"  said  Aunt  Ailie,  staring  into 
vacancy. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

kANIEL  DYCE.had  an  office  up  the  street  at  the 
windy  corner  facing  the  Cross,  with  two  clerks  in 
it  and  a  boy  who  docketed  letters  and  ran  errands. 
Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  partner — Cleland  & 
Dyce  the  firm  had  been — but  Cleland  was  a  shy  and 
melancholy  man  whose  only  hours  of  confidence  and 
gayety  came  to  him  after  injudicious  drams.  'Twas 
patent  to  all  how  his  habits  seized  him,  but  nobody 
mentioned  it  except  in  a  whisper,  sometimes  as  a 
kind  of  little  accident,  for  in  everything  else  he  was 
the  perfect  gentleman,  and  here  we  never  like  to  see 
the  honest  gentry  down.  All  men  liked  Colin  Cleland, 
and  many  would  share  his  jovial  hours  who  took 
their  law  business  elsewhere  than  to  Cleland  &  Dyce. 
That  is  the  way  of  the  world,  too;  most  men  keep  their 
jovial-money  in  a  different  pocket  from  where  they 
keep  their  cash.  The  time  came  when  it  behooved 
Mr.  Cleland  to  retire.  Men  who  knew  the  circumstances 
said  Dan  Dyce  paid  rather  dear  for  that  retirement, 
and  indeed  it  might  be  so  in  the  stricter  way  of  com- 
merce, but  the  lawyer  was  a  Christian  who  did  not 
hang  up  his  conscience  in  the  "piety  press"  with  his 
Sunday  clothes.  He  gave  his  partner  a  good  deal 
more  than  he  asked. 

"I  hope  you'll  come  in  sometimes  and  see  me  whiles 
at  night  and  join  in  a  glass  of  toddy,"  said  Mr.  Cleland. 

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"I'll  certainly  come  and  see  you,"  said  Dan  Dyce. 
And  then  he  put  his  arm  affectionately  through  that 
of  his  old  partner,  and  added,  "I  would — -I  would  ca' 
canny  wi'  the  toddy,  Colin,"  coating  the  pill  in  sweet 
and  kindly  Scots.  Thank  God,  we  have  two  tongues 
in  our  place,  and  can  speak  the  bitter  truth  in  terms 
that  show  humility  and  love,  and  not  the  sense  of 
righteousness,  dictate. 

"Eh!  What  for?"  said  Mr.  Cleland,  his  vanity  at 
once  in  arms. 

Dan  Dyce  looked  in  his  alarmed  and  wavering 
eyes  a  moment,  and  thought,  "What's  the  use?  He 
knows  himself,  they  always  do!" 

"For  fear — for  fear  of  fat,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
laugh,  tapping  with  his  finger  on  his  quondam  partner's 
widening  waistcoat.  "There  are  signs  of  a  prominent 
profile,  Colin.  If  you  go  on  as  you're  doing  it  will  be  a 
dreadful  expense  for  watch-guards." 

Colin  Cleland  at  once  became  the  easy-osey  man 
again,  and  smiled.  "Fat,  man!  it's  not  fat,"  said  he, 
clapping  himself  on  the  waistcoat,  "it's  information. 
Do  you  know,  Dan,  for  a  second,  there,  I  thought  you 
meant  to  be  unkind,  and  it  would  be  devilish  unlike 
you  to  be  unkind.  I  thought  you  meant  something 
else.  The  breath  of  vulgar  suspicion  has  mentioned 
drink." 

"It's  a  pity  that!"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  "for  a  whole 
cask  of  cloves  will  not  disguise  the  breath  of  suspicion." 

It  was  five  years  now  since  Colin  Cleland  retired 
among  his  toddy  rummers,  and  if  this  were  a  fancy 
story  I  would  be  telling  you  how  he  fell,  and  fell,  and 
fell,  but  the  truth — it's  almost  lamentable — is  that 
the  old  rogue  throve  on  leisure  and  ambrosial  nights 
with  men  who  were  now  quite  ready  to  give  the  firm 

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of  Daniel  Dyce  their  business,  seeing  they  had  Colin 
Cleland  all  to  themselves  and  under  observation. 
Trust  estates  and  factorages  from  all  quarters  of  the 
county  came  now  to  the  office  at  the  windy  corner. 
A  Christian  lawyer  with  a  sense  of  fun,  unspotted  by 
the  world,  and  yet  with  a  name  for  winning  causes, 
was  what  the  shire  had  long  been  wanting.  And 
Daniel  Dyce  grew  rich.  "I'm  making  money  so 
fast,"  he  said  one  day  to  his  sisters  (it  was  before 
Bud  came),  "that  I  wonder  often  what  poor  souls  are 
suffering  for  it." 

Said  Bell,  "It's  a  burden  that's  easy  put  up  with. 
We'll  be  able  now  to  get  a  new  pair  of  curtains  for 
the  back  bedroom." 

"A  pair  of  curtains!"  said  her  brother,  with  a  smile 
to  Ailie.  "Ay,  a  score  of  pairs  if  they're  needed,  even 
if  the  vogue  was  Valenciennes.  Your  notion  of  wealth, 
Bell,  is  Old  Malabar's — 'Twopence  more,  and  up  goes 
the  donkey!'  Woman,  I'm  fair  rolling  in  wealth." 

He  said  it  with  a  kind  of  exultation  that  brought 
to  her  face  a  look  of  fear  and  disapproval.  "Don't, 
Dan,  don't,"  she  cried — "don't  brag  of  the  world's 
dross;  it's  not  like  you.  'He  that  hasteth  to  be  rich 
shall  not  be  innocent,'  says  the  Proverbs.  You  must 
be  needing  medicine.  We  should  have  humble  hearts. 
How  many  that  were  high  have  had  a  fall!" 

"Are  you  frightened  God  will  hear  me  and  rue  His 
bounty?"  said  the  brother,  in  a  whisper.  "I'm  not 
bragging;  I'm  just  telling  you." 

"I  hope  you're  not  hoarding  it,"  proceeded  Miss 
Bell.  "It's  not  wiselike — " 

"Nor  Dyce-like  either,"  said  Miss  Ailie. 

"There's  many  a  poor  body  in  the  town  this  winter 
that's  needful." 

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"I  dare  say,"  said  Daniel  Dyce,  coldly.  "  'The  poor 
we  have  always  with  us.'  The  thing,  they  tell  me,  is 
decreed  by  Providence." 

"But  Providence  is  not  aye  looking,"  said  Bell.  "If 
that's  what  you're  frightened  for,  I'll  be  your  almoner." 

"It's  their  own  blame,  you  may  be  sure,  if  they're 
poor.  Improvidence  and  —  and  drink.  I'll  warrant 
they  have  their  glass  of  ale  every  Saturday.  What's 
ale  ?  Is  there  any  moral  elevation  in  it  ?  Its  nutritive 
quality,  I  believe,  is  less  than  the  tenth  part  of  a 
penny  loaf." 

"Oh,  but  the  poor  creatures!"  sighed  Miss  Bell. 

"Possibly,"  said  Dan  Dyce,  "but  every  man  must 
look  after  himself;  and  as  you  say,  many  a  man  well 
off  has  come  down  in  the  world.  We  should  take  no 
risks.  I  had  Black  the  baker  at  me  yesterday  for 
£20  in  loan  to  tide  over  some  trouble  with  his  flour 
merchant  and  pay  an  account  to  Miss  Minto." 

"A  decent  man,  with  a  wife  and  seven  children," 
said  Miss  Bell. 

"Decent  or  not,  he'll  not  be  coming  back  borrowing 
from  me  in  a  hurry.  I  set  him  off  with  a  flea  in  his  lug." 

"We're  not  needing  curtains,"  said  Miss  Bell,  hur- 
riedly; "the  pair  we  have  are  fine." 

Dan  finished  his  breakfast  that  day  with  a  smile, 
flicked  the  crumbs  off  his  waistcoat,  gave  one  uneasy 
glance  at  Ailie,  and  went  off  to  business  humming 
"There  is  a  Happy  Land." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  I'm  afraid  he's  growing  a  perfect 
miser,"  moaned  Bell,  when  she  heard  the  door  close 
behind  him.  "He  did  not  use  to  be  like  that  when 
he  was  younger  and  poorer.  Money's  like  the  tooth- 
ache, a  commanding  thing." 

Ailie  smiled.  "If  you  went  about  as  much  as  I 
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do,  Bell,"  she  said,  "you  would  not  be  misled  by  Dan's 
pretences.  And  as  for  Black,  the  baker,  I  saw  his 
wife  in  Miss  Minto's  yesterday  buying  boots  for  her 
children  and  a  bonnet  for  herself.  She  called  me  Miss 
Ailie,  an  honor  I  never  got  from  her  in  all  my  life 
before." 

"Do  you  think — do  you  think  he  gave  Black  the 
money?"  said  Bell,  in  a  pleasant  excitation. 

"Of  course  he  did.  It's  Dan's  way  to  give  it  to 
some  folk  with  a  pretence  of  reluctance,  for  if  he  did 
not  growl  they  would  never  be  off  his  face !  He's  telling 
us  about  the  lecture  that  accompanied  it  as  a  solace 
to  our  femininity.  Women,  you  know,  are  very  bad 
lenders,  and  dislike  the  practice  in  their  husbands  and 
brothers." 

"None  of  the  women  I  know,"  protested  Bell. 
"They're  just  as  free-handed  as  the  men  if  they  had 
it.  I  hope,"  she  added,  anxiously,  "that  Dan  got  good 
security.  Would  it  be  a  dear  bonnet,  now,  that  she 
was  getting?" 

Ailie  laughed — a  ridiculous  sort  of  sister  this;  she 
only  Laughed. 

Six  times  each  lawful  day  Daniel  Dyce  went  up 
and  down  the  street  between  his  house  and  the  office 
at  the  windy  corner  opposite  the  Cross,  the  business 
day  being  divided  by  an  interval  of  four  hours  to  suit 
the  mails.  The  town  folk  liked  to  see  him  passing; 
he  gave  the  street  an  air  of  occupation  and  gayety, 
as  if  a  trip  had  just  come  in  with  a  brass  band  banging 
at  the  latest  air.  Going  or  coming  he  was  apt  to  be 
humming  a  tune  to  himself  as  he  went  along  with  his 
hands  in  his  outside  pockets,  and  it  was  an  unusual  day 
when  he  did  not  stop  to  look  in  at  a  shop  window  or 
two  on  the  way,  though  they  never  changed  a  feature 

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BUD 

once  a  month.  To  the  shops  he  honored  thus  it  was 
almost  as  good  as  a  big  turnover.  Before  him  his 
dog  went  whirling  and  barking,  a  long  alarm  for  the 
clerks  to  stop  their  game  of  Catch-the-Ten  and  dip 
their  pens.  There  were  few  that  passed  him  without 
some  words  of  recognition. 

He  was  coming  down  from  the  office  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  Han'sel  Monday  that  started  Bud  in  the 
Pigeons'  Seminary  when  he  met  the  nurse,  old  Betty 
Baxter,  with  a  basket.  She  put  it  down  at  her  feet, 
and  bobbed  a  courtesy,  a  thing  that  nowadays  you 
rarely  see  in  Scotland. 

"Tuts!  woman,"  he  said  to  her,  lifting  the  basket  and 
putting  it  in  her  hand.  "Why  need  you  bother  with 
the  like  of  that?  You  and  your  courtesies!  They're 
out  of  date,  Miss  Baxter,  out  of  date,  like  the  de- 
cent men  that  deserved  them  long  ago,  before  my 
time." 

"No,  they're  not  out  of  date,  Mr.  Dyce,"  said  she, 
"I'll  aye  be  minding  yon  about  my  mother;  you'll 
be  paid  back  some  day." 

"Tuts!"  said  he  again,  impatient.  "You're  an 
awful  blether:  how's  your  patient,  Duncan  Gill?" 

"As  dour  as  the  devil,  sir,"  said  the  nurse.  "Still 
hanging  on." 

"Poor  man!  poor  man!"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "He'll 
just  have  to  put  his  trust  in  God." 

"Oh,  he's  no*  so  far  through  as  all  that,"  said  Betty 
Baxter.  "He  can  still  sit  up  and  take  his  drop  of 
porridge.  They're  telling  me  you  have  got  a  wonder- 
ful niece,  Mr.  Dyce,  all  the  way  from  America.  What  a 
mercy  for  her!  But  I  have  not  set  eyes  on  her  yet. 
I'm  so  busy  that  I  could  not  stand  in  the  close  like  the 
others,  watching:  what  is  she  like?" 
6  77 


BUD 

"Just  like  Jean  Macrae,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  preparing 
to  move  on. 

"And  what  was  Jean  Macrae  like?" 

"Oh,  just  like  other  folk,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  and  passed 
on  chuckling,  to  run  almost  into  the  arms  of  Captain 
Consequence. 

"Have  you  heard  the  latest?"  said  Captain  Conse- 
quence, putting  his  kid-gloved  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  lawyer,  who  felt  it  like  a  lump  of  ice,  for  he 
did  not  greatly  like  the  man,  the  smell  of  whose  cigars, 
he  said,  before  he  knew  they  came  from  the  Pilgrim 
widows,  proved  that  he  rose  from  the  ranks. 

"No,  Captain  Brodie,"  he  said,  coldly.  "Who's  the 
rogue  or  the  fool  this  time?"  but  the  captain  was 
too  stupid  to  perceive  it.  He  stared  perplexedly. 

"I  hear,"  said  he,  "the  doctor's  in  a  difficulty." 

"Is  he— is  he?"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "That's  a  chance 
for  his  friends  to  stand  by  him." 

"Let  him  take  it!"  said  Captain  Consequence,  puff- 
ing. "Did  he  not  say  to  me  once  yonder,  'God  knows 
how  you're  living.'" 

"It  must  be  God  alone,  for  all  the  rest  of  us  are 
wondering,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  and  left  the  man  to  put  it 
in  his  pipe  and  smoke  it. 

Along  the  street  came  the  two  Miss  Duffs,  who  kept 
the  dame  school,  and  he  saw  a  hesitation  in  their 
manner  when  they  realized  a  meeting  was  inevitable. 
If  they  had  been  folk  that  owed  him  anything  he  would 
not  have  wondered,  from  their  manner,  to  see  them 
tuck  up  their  skirts  and  scurry  down  the  lane.  Twins 
they  were — a  tiny  couple,  scarcely  young,  dressed 
always  in  a  douce  long-lasting  brown,  something  in 
their  walk  and  color  that  made  them  look  like  pigeon 
hens,  and  long  ago  conferred  on  them  that  name  in 

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BUD 

Daniel  Dyce's  dwelling.     They  met  him  in  front  of  his 
own  door,  and  seemed  inclined  to  pass  in  a  trepidation. 

He  took  off  his  hat  to  them  and  stood,  full  of  curiosity 
about  Lennox. 

"What  a  lovely  winter  day!"  said  Miss  Jean,  with 
an  air  of  supplication,  as  if  her  very  life  depended  on 
his  agreement. 

"Isn't  it  perfectly  exquisite!"  said  Miss  Amelia, 
who  usually  picked  up  the  bald  details  of  her  sister's 
conversation  and  passed  them  on  embroidered  with  a 
bit  of  style. 

"It's  not  bad,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  blinking  at  them, 
wondering  what  ailed  the  dears  to-day.  They  were 
looking  uneasily  around  them  for  some  way  of  escape; 
he  could  almost  hear  the  thump  of  their  hearts,  he 
noted  the  stress  of  their  breathing.  Miss  Jean's  eyes 
fastened  on  the  tree-tops  over  the  banker's  garden- 
wall  ;  he  felt  that  in  a  moment  she  would  spread  out  her 
wings  and  fly.  "You  have  opened  the  school  again," 
he  said,  simply. 

"We  started  again  to-day,"  cooed  Miss  Jean. 

"Yes,  we  resumed  to-day,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "The 
common  round,  the  daily  task.  And,  oh!  Mr.  Dyce — " 

She  stopped  suddenly  at  the  pressure  of  her  sister's 
elbow  on  her  own,  and  lowered  her  eyes,  that  had  for 
a  second  shown  an  appalling  area  of  white.  It  was 
plain  they  were  going  to  fly.  Mr.  Dyce  felt  inclined 
to  cry  "Pease,  pease!"  and  keep  them  a  little  longer. 

"You  have- my  niece  with  you  to-day  ?"  he  remarked. 
"What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

A  look  of  terror  exchanged  between  them  escaped 
his  observation. 

"She's — she's  a  wonderful  child,"  said  Miss  Jean, 
nervously  twisting  the  strings  of  a  hand-bag. 

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BUD 

"A  singularly  interesting  and  —  and  unexpected 
creature,"  said  Miss  Amelia. 

"Fairly  bright,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Dyce. 

"Oh,  bright!"  repeated  Miss  Jean.  "Bright  is  not 
the  word  for  it — is  it,  Amelia?" 

"I  would  rather  say  brilliant,"  said  Amelia,  cough- 
ing, and  plucking  a  handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket  to 
inhale  its  perfume  and  avert  a  threatening  swound. 
"I  hope — we  both  hope,  Mr.  Dyce,  she  will  be  spared 
to  grow  up  a  credit  to  you.  One  never  knows?" 

"That's  it,"  agreed  Mr.  Dyce,  cheerfully.  "Some 
girls  grow  up  and  become  credits  to  their  parents  and 
guardians,  others  become  reciters  and  spoil  many  a 
jolly  party  with  'The  Women  of.  Mumbles  Head'  or 
'Coffee  was  not  strong."1 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Miss  Jean,  hardly  understanding: 
the  painful  possibility  seemed  to  be  too  much  for  Miss 
Amelia;  she  said  nothing,  but  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
distant  tree-tops  and  gave  a  little  flap  of  the  wings  of 
her  Inverness  cape. 

"Pease,  pease!"  murmured  Mr.  Dyce,  unconsciously, 
anxious  to  hold  them  longer  and  talk  about  his  niece. 

"I  beg  pardon!"  exclaimed  Miss  Jean,  and  the  lawyer 
got  very  red. 

"I  hope  at  least  you'll  like  Bud,"  he  said.  "She's 
odd,  but — but — but — "  he  paused  for  a  word. 

" — sincere,"  suggested  Miss  Jean. 

"Yes,  I  would  say  sincere — or  perhaps  outspoken 
would  be  better,"  said  Miss  Amelia. 

"So  clever  too,"  added  Miss  Jean. 

"Preternaturally!"  cooed  Miss  Amelia. 

"Such  a  delightful  accent,"  said  Miss  Jean. 

"Like  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  quoted 
Miss  Amelia. 

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BUD 

"But — "  hesitated  Miss  Jean. 

"Still — "  more  hesitatingly  said  her  sister,  and  then 
there  was  a  long  pause. 

"Oh,  to  the  mischief!"  said  Mr.  Dyce  to  himself, 
then  took  off  his  hat  again,  said,  "Good-afternoon," 
and  turned  to  his  door. 

He  was  met  by  Ailie  in  the  lobby;  she  had  seen  him 
from  a  window  speaking  to  the  Duffs.  "What  were 
they  saying  to  you?"  she  asked,  with  more  curiosity  in 
her  manner  than  was  customary. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "They  just  stood 
and  cooed.  I'm  not  sure  that  a  doo-cot  is  the  best 
place  to  bring  up  an  eagle  in.  How  did  Bud  get  on 
with  them  at  school  to-day  ?" 

"So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  she  did  not  get  on  at 
all;  she  seems  to  have  demoralized  the  school,  and 
driven  the  Misses  Duff  into  hysterics,  and  she  left  of 
her  own  accord  and  came  home  an  hour  before  closing- 
time.  And — and  she's  not  going  back!" 

Mr.  Dyce  stood  a  moment  in  amazement,  then 
rubbed  his  hands  gleefully.  "I'm  glad  to  hear  it," 
said  he.  -  "The  poor  birdies  between  them  could  not 
summon  up  courage  to  tell  me  what  was  wrong.  I'm 
sorry  for  them;  if  she's  not  going  back,  we'll  send 
them  down  a  present." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THAT  the  child  should  have  gone  to  the  dame  school 
at  all  was  due  to  her  Auntie  Bell.  From  the  first 
Miss  Ailie  had  been  dubious  of  the  seminary,  but 
Bell  was  terribly  domineering;  in  fact,  was  neither  to 
hold  nor  bind,  and  the  doo-cot  it  bode  to  be.  A  prod- 
uct herself  of  the  old  dame  school  in  the  spacious 
days  of  Barbara  Mushet,  whose  pupils  in  white-seam 
sewing  and  Italian  hand  were  nowadays  married  to 
the  best,  and  notable  as  housewives,  she  deemed  it 
still  the  only  avenue  to  the  character  and  skill  that 
keep  those  queer  folk,  men,  when  they're  married,  by 
their  own  fire-ends.  As  for  Daniel  Dyce,  he  was,  I 
fear,  indifferent  how  Bud  came  by  her  schooling,  having 
a  sort  of  philosophy  that  the  gate  of  gifts  is  closed  on 
us  the  day  we're  born,  and  that  the  important  parts  of 
the  curriculum,  good  or  bad,  are  picked  up  like  a  Scots 
or  Hielan'  accent,  someway  in  the  home. 

So  Ailie  had  gone  reluctant  to  the  Misses  Duff  and 
told  them  that  on  the  morrow  the  child  would  start 
in  their  academy.  They  currookity  -  cooed  at  the 
prospect,  put  past  their  crocheting,  brought  out  their 
celebrated  silver  spoons,  and  made  of  the  afternoon 
tea  a  banquet  with  the  aid  of  a  seed-cake  hurriedly 
brought  from  P.  &  A.  MacGlashan's.  Their  home 
was  like  a  stall  in  a  bazaar  and  smelt  of  turpentine. 
Ailie,  who  loved  wide  spaces,  sat  cramped  between 

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BUD 

a  laden  what-not  and  a  white-enamelled  spinning- 
wheel,  the  feathers  of  her  hat  colliding  with  a  fret- 
work bracket  on  the  wall  behind  her  chair,  and  think- 
ing not  unkindly  of  the  creatures,  wished  that  she 
could  give  them  a  good  shaking.  Oh!  they  were  so 
prim,  pernickety,  and  hopelessly  in  all  things  wrong! 
She  was  not  very  large  herself,  for  stature,  but  in 
their  company  she  felt  gigantic.  And  oddly  there 
rose  in  her,  too,  a  sense  of  gladness  that  she  was  of 
a  newer  kind  of  women  than  those  gentle  slaves, 
prisoned  in  their  primness,  manacled  by  stupid  old 
conceits.  She  was  glad  she  was  free,  that  her  happy 
hours  were  not  so  wasted  in  futilities,  that  she  saw 
farther,  that  she  knew  no  social  fears,  that  custom 
had  not  crushed  her  soul,  and  yet  she  someway  liked 
and  pitied  them. 

"You'll  find  her  somewhat  odd,"  she  explained,  as 
she  nibbled  the  seed-cake,  with  a  silly  little  doily 
of  Miss  Jean's  contrivance  on  her  knee,  and  the  doves 
fluttering  round  her  as  timid  of  settling  down  as  though 
they  had  actual  feathers  and  she  were  a  cat.  "She 
has  got  a  remarkably  quick  intelligence;  she  is  quite 
unconventional — quite  unlike  other  children  in  many 
respects,  and  it  may  be  difficult  at  first  to  manage  her." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Miss  Jean.  "What  a  pity  she 
should  be  so  odd!  I  suppose  it's  the  American  system; 
but  perhaps  she  will  improve." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  alarming,"  explained  Miss  Ailie, 
recovering  the  doily  from  the  floor  to  which  it  had 
slid  from  her  knee,  and  replacing  it  with  a  wicked 
little  shake.  "If  she  didn't  speak  much  you  would 
never  guess  from  her  appearance  that  she  knew  any 
more  than — than  most  of  us.  Her  mother,  I  feel 
sure,  was  something  of  a  genius — at  least  it  never 

83 


BUD 

came  from  the  Dyce  side;  we  were  all  plain  folk,  not 
exactly  fools,  but  still  not  odd  enough  to  have  the 
dogs  bite  us,  or  our  neighbors  cross  to  the  other  side 
of  the  street  when  they  saw  us  corning.  She  died  two 
years  ago,  and  when  William — when  my  brother  died, 
Lennox  was  staying  with  professional  friends  of  him- 
self and  his  wife,  who  have  been  good  enough  to  let  us 
have  her,  much  against  their  natural  inclination." 

"The  dear!"  said  Miss  Jean,  enraptured. 

"Quite  a  sweet  romance!"  cooed  Miss  Amelia,  lan- 
guishing. 

"You  may  be  sure  we  will  do  all  we  can  for  her," 
continued  Miss  Jean,  pecking  with  unconscious  fingers 
at  the  crumbs  on  her  visitor's  lap,  till  Ailie  could  scarcely 
keep  from  smiling. 

"She  will  soon  feel  quite  at  home  among  us  in  our 
little  school,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "No  doubt  she'll  be 
shy  at  first — " 

"Quite  the  contrary!"  Ailie  assured  them,  with  a 
little  mischievous  inward  glee,  to  think  how  likely 
Bud  was  to  astonish  them  by  other  qualities  than 
shyness.  "It  seems  that  in  America  children  are 
brought  up  on  wholly  different  lines  from  children  here ; 
you'll  find  a  curious  fearless  independence  in  her." 

The  twins  held  up  their  hands  in  amazement, 
" tcht-tcht-tchting "  simultaneously.  "What  a  pity!" 
said  Miss  Jean,  as  if  it  were  a  physical  affliction. 

"But  no  doubt  by  carefulness  and  training  it  can 
be  eradicated,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  determined  to  en- 
courage hope. 

At  that  Miss  Ailie  lost  her  patience.  She  rose  to 
go,  with  a  start  that  sent  the  doves  more  widely 
fluttering  than  ever  in  their  restless  little  parlor,  so 
crowded  out  of  all  comfort  by  its  fretful  toys. 

84 


BUD 

"I  don't  think  you  should  trouble  much  about  the 
eradication,"  she  said,  with  some  of  her  brother's 
manner  at  the  bar.  "Individuality  is  not  painful  to 
the  possessor  like  toothache,  so  it's  a  pity  to  eradicate 
it  or  kill  the  nerve." 

The  words  were  out  before  she  could  prevent  them; 
she  bit  her  lips,  and  blushed  in  her  vexation  to  have 
said  them,  but  luckily  the  Pigeons  in  their  agitation 
were  not  observant. 

"Like  all  the  Dyces,  a  little  daft!"  was  what  they 
said  of  her  when  she  was  gone,  and  they  were  very 
different  women  then,  as  they  put  on  their  aprons, 
rolled  up  the  silver  spoons  in  tissue-paper  and  put  them 
in  a  stocking  of  Amelia's,  before  they  started  to  their 
crochet  work  again. 

It  was  a  bright,  expectant,  happy  bairn  that  set 
out  next  day  for  the  school.  No  more  momentous 
could  have  seemed  her  start  for  Scotland  across  the 
wide  Atlantic;  her  aunties,  looking  after  her  going 
down  the  street  alone,  so  confident  and  sturdily,  rued 
their  own  arrangement,  and  envied  the  Misses  Duff 
that  were  to  be  blessed  all  day  with  her  companion- 
ship. To  Bell  it  seemed  as  if  the  wean  were  walking 
out  of  their  lives  on  that  broad  road  that  leads  our 
bairns  to  other  knowledge  than  ours,  to  other  dwell- 
ings, to  the  stranger's  heart.  Once  the  child  turned 
at  the  corner  of  the  church  and  waved  her  hand;  Miss 
Ailie  took  it  bravely,  but  oh,  Miss  Bell! — Miss  Bell! — 
she  flew  to  the  kitchen  and  stormed  at  Kate  as  she 
hung  out  at  the  window,  an  observer  too. 

Three-and-twenty  scholars  were  there  in  the  doo- 
cot  of  the  Duffs — sixteen  of  them  girls  and  the  re- 
mainder boys,  but  not  boys  enough  as  yet  to  be  in 
the  grammar-school.  Miss  Jean  came  out  and  rang 

85 


BUD 

a  tea-bell,  and  Bud  was  borne  in  on  the  tide  of  youth 
that  was  still  all  strange  to  her.  The  twins  stood  side 
by  side  behind  a  desk;  noisily  the  children  accustomed 
found  their  seats,  but  Bud  walked  up  to  the  teachers 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-morning;  I'm  Lennox  Dyce,"  she  said,  before 
they  could  get  over  their  astonishment  at  an  intro- 
duction so  unusual.  Her  voice,  calm  and  clear,  sounded 
to  the  backmost  seat  and  sent  the  children  tittering. 

"Silence!"  cried  Miss  Jean,  reddening  with  a  glance 
at  the  delinquents,  as  she  dubiously  took  the  proffered 
hand. 

"Rather  a  nice  little  school,"  said  Bud,  "but  a 
little  stuffy.  Wants  air  some,  don't  it?  What's  the 
name  of  the  sweet  little  boy  in  the  Fauntleroy  suit? 
It  looks  as  if  it  would  be  apt  to  be  Percy." 

She  was  standing  between  the  twins,  facing  the 
scholars;  she  surveyed  all  with  the  look  of  his  Majesty's 
Inspector. 

"Hush-h-h,"  murmured  Miss  Amelia,  Miss  Jean 
being  speechless.  "You  will  sit  here,"  and  she  ner- 
vously indicated  a  place  in  the  front  bench.  "  By-and- 
by,  dear,  we  will  see  what  you  can  do." 

Bud  took  her  place  composedly,  and  rose  with  the 
rest  to  join  in  the  Lord's  Prayer.  The  others  mumbled 
it;  for  her  it  was  a  treat  to  have  to  say  it  there  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  in  public.  Into  the  words  she  put 
interest  and  appeal ;  for  the  first  time  the  doo-cot  heard 
that  supplication  endowed  with  its  appropriate  dignity. 
And  then  the  work  of  the  day  began.  The  school  lay 
in  the  way  of  the  main  traffic  of  the  little  town:  they 
could  hear  each  passing  wheel  and  footstep,  the  sweet 
"chink,  chink"  from  the  smithy,  whence  came  the 
smell  of  a  sheep's  head  singeing.  Sea-gulls  and  rooks 

86 


BUD 

bickered  and  swore  in  the  gutters  of  the  street;  from 
fields  behind  came  in  a  ploughman's  whistle  as  he 
drove  his  team,  slicing  green  seas  of  fallow  as  a  vessel 
cuts  the  green,  green  wave.  Four-and-twenty  children, 
four-and-twenty  souls,  fathers  and  mothers  of  the 
future  race,  all  outwardly  much  alike  with  eyes,  noses, 
hands,  and  ears  in  the  same  position,  how  could  the 
poor  Misses  Duff  know  what  was  what  in  the  stuff  they 
handled?  Luckily  for  their  peace  of  mind,  it  never 
occurred  to  them  that  between  child  and  child  there 
was  much  odds.  Some  had  blue  pinafores  and  some 
white;  some  were  freckled  and  some  had  warts  and 
were  wild,  and  these  were  the  banker's  boys.  God  only 
knew  the  other  variations.  'Twas  the  duty  of  the 
twins  to  bring  them  all  in  mind  alike  to  the  one  plain 
level. 

It  was  lucky  that  the  lessons  of  that  day  began 
with  the  Shorter  Catechism,  for  it  kept  the  ignorance 
of  Lennox  Dyce  a  little  while  in  hiding.  She  heard 
with  amazement  of  Effectual  Calling  and  Justification 
and  the  reasons  annexed  to  the  fifth  commandment 
as  stammeringly  and  lifelessly  chanted  by  the  others; 
but  when  her  turn  came,  and  Miss  Jean,  to  test  her, 
asked  her  simply  "  Man's  chief  end,"  she  answered, 
boldly: 

"Man's  chief  end  is  to  glorify  God,  and  to  enjoy 
Him  forever." 

"Very  good!  very  good,  indeed!"  said  the  twin  en- 
couragingly. She  was  passing  on  to  the  next  pupil, 
when  Bud  burst  out  with  her  own  particular  reason 
annexed,  borrowed  from  the  rapturous  explanation 
of  her  uncle. 

"Man  is  a  harp,"  she  said,  as  solemnly  as  he  had  said 
it — "a  har-r-rp  with  a  thousand  strings;  and  we  must 

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sing,  sing,  sing,  even  if  we're  timmer  as  a  cask,  and  be 
grateful  always,  and  glad  in  the  mornings  with  things." 

If  the  whistling  ploughman  and  his  team  had  burst 
into  the  school-room  it  would  have  been  no  greater 
marvel,  brought  no  more  alarm  to  the  breasts  of  the 
little  teachers.  They  looked  at  her  as  if  she  had  been 
a  witch.  The  other  pupils  stared,  with  open  mouths. 

"What's  that  you  say,  my  dear?"  said  Miss  Amelia. 
"Did  you  learn  that  in  America?" 

"No,"  said  Bud,  "I  just  found  it  out  from  Uncle 
Dan." 

"Silence!"  cried  Miss  Jean,  for  now  the  class  was 
tittering  again.  She  went  with  her  sister  behind  the 
black-board,  and  nervously  they  communed.  Bud 
smiled  benignly  on  her  fellows. 

Just  as  disconcerting  was  her  performance  in  geog- 
raphy. Had  they  tested  her  in  her  knowledge  of 
the  United  States  she  might  have  come  out  trium- 
phantly commonplace ;  but  unfortunately  they  chose  to 
ask  her  of  Scotland,  and  there  her  latest  teacher  had 
been  Kate. 

"What  are  the  chief  towns  in  Scotland?"  asked 
Miss  Jean. 

"Oban,  and  Glasgow,  and  'Tornoway,"  replied  Bud, 
with  a  touch  of  Highland  accent;  and,  tired  of  sitting 
so  long  in  one  place,  calmly  rose  and  removed  herself 
to  a  seat  beside  the  Fauntleroy  boy,  who  was  greatly 
put  about  at  such  a  preference. 

"You  mustn't  move  about  like  that,  Lennox,"  ex- 
plained Miss  Amelia,  taking  her  back.  "It's  not 
allowed." 

"But  I  was  all  pins  and  needles,"  said  Bud,  frankly, 
"and  I  wanted  to  speak  to  Percy." 

"My  dear  child,  his  name's  not  Percy,  and  there's 


BUD 

no  speaking  in  school,"  exclaimed  the  distressed  Miss 
Amelia. 

"No  speaking!  Why,  you're  speaking  all  the  time," 
said  the  child.  "It  ain't  —  isn't  fair.  Can't  I  just 
get  speaking  a  wee  teeny  bit  to  that  nice  girl  over 
there?" 

The  twins  looked  at  each  other  in  horror:  the  child 
was  a  thousand  times  more  difficult  than  the  worst 
her  aunt  had  led  them  to  expect.  A  sudden  un- 
pleasant impression  that  their  familiar  pupils  seemed 
like  wooden  models  beside  her,  came  to  them  both. 
But  they  were  alarmed  to  see  that  the  wooden  models 
were  forgetting  their  correct  deportment  under  the 
demoralizing  influence  of  the  young  invader. 

Once  more  they  dived  behind  the  black-board  and 
communed. 

There  were  many  such  instances  during  the  day. 
Bud,  used  for  all  her  thinking  years  to  asking  explana- 
tions of  what  she  did  not  understand,  never  hesitated 
to  interrogate  her  teachers,  who  seemed  to  her  to  be 
merely  women,  like  her  mother,  and  Mrs.  Molyneux, 
and  Auntie  Ailie,  only  a  little  wilted  and  severe, 
grotesque  in  some  degree  because  of  their  funny  af- 
fected manner,  and  the  crochet  that  never  was  out 
of  their  hands  in  oral  exercises.  She  went  further, 
she  contradicted  them  twice,  not  rudely,  but  as  one 
might  contradict  her  equals. 

"You  talk  to  her,"  said  Miss  Jean  behind  the  black- 
board where  they  had  taken  refuge  again.  "I  declare 
I'll  take  a  fit  if  this  goes  on!  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
such  a  creature?" 

Miss  Amelia  almost  cried.  All  her  fixed  ideas  of 
children  were  shattered  at  a  blow.  Here  was  one 
who  did  not  in  the  least  degree  fit  in  with  the  scheme 

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of  treatment  in  the  doo-cot.  But  she  went  forward 
with  a  look  of  great  severity. 

"Of  course,  coming  from  America  and  all  that,  and 
never  having  been  at  school  before,  you  don't  know," 
she  said,  "but  I  must  tell  you  that  you  are  not  be- 
having nicely — not  like  a  nice  little  girl  at  all,  Lennox. 
Nice  little  girls  in  school  in  this  country  listen,  and 
never  say  anything  unless  they're  asked.  They  are 
respectful  to  their  teachers,  and  never  ask  questions, 
and  certainly  never  contradict  them,  and — " 

"But,  please,  Miss  Duff,  I  wasn't  contradicting," 
explained  Bud,  very  soberly,  "and  when  respect  is 
called  for,  I'm  there  with  the  goods.  You  said  honor 
was  spelled  with  a  'u,'  and  I  guess  you  just  made  a  mis- 
take, same  as  I  might  make  myself,  for  there  ain't  no 
'u'  in  honor,  at  least  in  America." 

"I — I — I  never  made  a  mistake  in  all  my  life,"  said 
Miss  Amelia,  gasping. 

"Oh,  Laura!"  was  all  that  Bud  replied,  but  in  such 
a  tone,  and  with  eyes  so  widely  opened,  it  set  half  of 
the  other  pupils  tittering. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'Oh,  Laura?'"  asked  Miss 
Jean.  "Who  is  Laura?" 

"You  can  search  me,"  replied  Bud,  composedly. 
"Jim  often  said  'Oh,  Laura!'  when  he  got  a  start." 

"  It's  not  a  nice  thing  to  say,"  said  Miss  Jean.  "  It's 
not  at  all  ladylike.  It's  just  a  sort  of  profane  language, 
and  profane  language  is  an  'abomination  unto  the 
Lord.'" 

"But  it  was  so  like  Jim,"  said  Bud,  giggling  with 
recollection.  "If  it's  slang  I'll  stop  it — at  least  I'D 
try  to  stop  it.  I'm  bound  to  be  a  well-off  English 
undefied,  you  know;  poppa — father  fixed  that." 

The  school  was  demoralized  without  a  doubt,  foi 

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now  the  twins  were  standing  nervously  before  Bud 
and  put  on  equal  terms  with  her  in  spite  of  themselves, 
and  the  class  was  openly  interested  and  amused — 
more  interested  and  amused  than  it  had  ever  been  at 
anything  that  had  ever  happened  in  the  doo-cot  before. 
Miss  Amelia  was  the  first  to  comprehend  how  far  she 
and  her  sister  had  surrendered  their  citadel  of  authority 
to  the  little  foreigner's  attack.  "Order!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "We  will  now  take  up  poetry  and  reading." 
Bud  cheered  up  wonderfully  at  the  thought  of  poetry 
and  reading,  but  alas!  her  delight  was  short-lived,  for 
the  reading-book  put  into  her  hand  was  but  a  little 
further  on  than  Auntie  Ailie's  Twopenny.  When  her 
turn  came  to  read  "My  sister  Ella  has  a  cat  called 
Tabby.  She  is  black,  and  has  a  pretty  white  breast. 
She  has  long  whiskers  and  a  bushy  white  tail,"  she 
read  with  a  tone  of  amusement  that  exasperated  the 
twins,  though  they  could  not  explain  to  themselves 
why.  What  completed  Bud's  rebellion,  however,  was 
the  poetry.  "Meddlesome  Matty"  was  a  kind  of 
poetry  she  had  skipped  over  in  Chicago,  plunging 
straightway  into  the  glories  of  the  play-bills  and 
Shakespeare,  and  when  she  had  read  that: 

"One  ugly  trick  has  often  spoiled 

The  sweetest  and  the  best; 
Matilda,  though  a  pleasant  child, 
One  ugly  trick  possessed" — 

she  laughed  outright. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Miss  Duff,"  she  said,  when  the  twins 
showed  their  distress.  "It  looks  like  poetry,  sure 
enough,  for  it's  got  the  jaggy  edges,  but  it  doesn't  make 
any  zip  inside  me  same  as  poetry  does.  It  wants  biff." 

"What's  'zip'  and  'biff'?"  asked  Miss  Amelia. 


BUD 

"It's — it's  a  kind  of  tickle  in  your  mind,"  said  Bud. 
"I'm  so  tired,"  she  continued,  rising  in  her  seat,  "I 
guess  I'll  head  for  home  now."  And  before  the  twins 
had  recovered  from  their  dumfounderment  she  was  in 
the  porch  putting  on  her  cloak  and  hood. 

"Just  let  her  go,"  said  Miss  Jean  to  her  sister.  "If 
she  stays  any  longer  I  shall  certainly  have  a  swoon; 
I  feel  quite  weak." 

And  so  Bud  marched  out  quite  cheerfully,  and 
reached  home  an  hour  before  she  was  due. 

Kate  met  her  at  the  door.  "My  stars!  are  you 
home  already?"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  look  at  the 
town  clock.  "You  must  be  smart  at  your  schooling 
when  they  let  you  out  of  the  cemetery  so  soon." 

"It  ain't  a  cemetery  at  all,"  said  Bud,  standing 
unconcernedly  in  the  lobby;  "it's  just  a  kinder- 
garten." 

Aunt  Ailie  bore  down  on  her  to  overwhelm  her  in 
caresses.  "What  are  you  home  for  already,  Bud?" 
she  asked.  "It's  not  time  yet,  is  it?" 

"No,"  said  Bud,  "but  I  just  couldn't  stay  any 
longer.  I'd  as  lief  not  go  back  there.  The  ladies 
don't  love  me.  They're  Sunday  sort  of  ladies,  and 
give  me  pins  and  needles.  They  smile  and  smile, 
same's  it  was  done  with  a  glove-stretcher,  and  don't 
love  me.  They  said  I  was  using  profound  language, 
and — and  they  don't  love  me.  Not  the  way  mother 
and  Mrs.  Molyneux  and  you  and  Auntie  Bell  and 
Uncle  Dan  and  Kate  and  Footles  does.  They  made 
goo-goo  eyes  at  me  when  I  said  the  least  thing.  They 
had  all  those  poor  kiddies  up  on  the  floor  doing 
their  little  bits,  and  they  made  me  read  kindergarten 
poetry  —  that  was  the  limit!  So  I  just  upped  and 
walked." 

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The  two  aunts  and  Kate  stood  round  her  for  a  mo- 
ment baffled. 

"What's  to  be  done  now?"  said  Aunt  Ailie. 

"Tuts!"  said  Aunt  Bell,  "give  the  wean  a  drink  of 
milk  and  some  bread  and  butter." 

And  so  ended  Bud's  only  term  in  a  dame  school. 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  a  saying  of  Daniel  Dyce's  that  all  the  world 
is  under  one's  own  waistcoat.     We  have  a  way  of 
spacing  fortunes  in  the  North,  when  young,  in  which 
we  count  the  waistcoat  buttons  from  top  to   bottom, 
and  say: 

"  Tinker, 
Tailor, 
Soldier, 
Sailor, 
Rich  man, 
Poor  man, 
Prodigal,  or 
Thief?" 

Whichever  name  falls  upon  the  last  button  tells  what 
is  your  destiny,  and  after  the  county  corps  has  been 
round  our  way  recruiting,  I  see  our  school-boys  with  all 
their  waistcoat  buttons  but  three  at  the  top  amissing. 
Dan  Dyce  had  a  different  formula:  he  said,  "Luckiness, 
Leisure,  111  or  Well,  Good  World,  Bad  World,  Heaven 
or  Hell?" 

"Not  Heaven,  Dan!"  said  Bell.  "The  other  place 
I'll  admit,  for  whiles  I'm  in  a  furious  temper  over 
some  trifle;  "to  which  he  would  answer,  "Woman! 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  within  you." 

So,  I  think  sometimes,  all  that's  worth  while  in  the 
world  is  in  this  little  burgh,  except  a  string-quartette 

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and  a  place  called  Florence  I  have  long  been  ettling 
to  see  if  ever  I  have  the  money.  In  this  small  town 
is  every  week  as  much  of  tragedy  and  comedy  and 
farce  as  would  make  a  complete  novel  full  of  laughter 
and  tears,  that  would  sell  in  a  jiffy.  I  have  started, 
myself,  a  score  of  them — all  the  essential  inspiration 
got  from  plain  folk  passing  my  window,  or  from  hear- 
ing a  sentence  dropped  among  women  gossiping 
round  a  well.  Many  a  winter  night  I  come  in  with  a 
fine  catch  of  tales  picked  up  in  the  by-going,  as  we 
say,  and  light  the  candles  in  a  hurry,  and  make  a 
gallant  dash  at  "Captain  Consequence.  Chapter  I." 
or  "A  Wild  Inheritance.  Part  I.  The  Astounding 
Mary."  Only  the  lavishness  of  the  material  hampers 
me:  when  I'm  at  "Captain  Consequence"  (which 
would  be  a  splendid  sombre  story  of  an  ill  life,  if 
I  ever  got  beyond  Chapter  I.  and  the  old  scamp's 
fondness  for  his  mother),  my  wife  runs  in  with  some- 
thing warm  to  drink,  and  tells  me  Jonathan  Camp- 
bell's goat  has  broken  into  the  minister's  garden,  and 
then  I'm  off  the  key  for  villany;  there's  a  shilling  book 
in  Jonathan's  goat  herself. 

But  this  time  I'm  determined  to  stick  by  the  fort- 
unes of  the  Dyce  family,  now  that  I  have  got  my- 
self inside  their  door.  I  hope  we  are  friends  of  that 
household,  dearer  to  me  than  the  dwellings  of  kings 
(not  that  I  have  cognizance  of  many).  I  hope  that 
no  matter  how  often  or  how  early  we  rap  at  the  brass 
knocker,  or  how  timidly,  Kate  will  come,  and  in  one 
breath  say,  "What  is't?  Come  in!"  We  may  hear, 
when  we're  in,  people  passing  in  the  street,  and  the 
wild  geese  call  —  wild  geese,  wild  geese!  this  time 
I  will  not  follow  where  you  tempt  to  where  are  only 
silence  and  dream — the  autumn  and  the  summer  days 

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may  cry  us  out  to  garden  and  wood,  but  if  I  can  manage 
it  I  will  lock  the  door  on  the  inside,  and  shut  us  snugly 
in  with  Daniel  Dyce  and  his  household,  and  it  will  be 
well  with  us  then.  Yes,  yes,  it  will  be  well  with  us 
then. 

The  wild-goose  cry,  heard  in  the  nights,  beyond  her 
comprehension,  was  all  that  Bud  Dyce  found  foreign 
in  that  home.  All  else  was  natural  and  familiar  and 
friendly,  for  all  else  she  knew  was  love.  But  she 
feared  at  first  the  "honk,  honk"  of  the  lone  wild  things 
that  burdened  her  with  wonder  and  awe.  Lying  in  her 
attic  bower  at  night,  they  seemed  to  her  like  sore 
mistaken  wanderers,  wind-driven,  lost;  and  so  they 
are,  I  know.  Hans  Andersen  and  Grimm  for  her  had 
given  to  their  kind  a  forlorn  and  fearsome  meaning. 
But  Kate  MacNeill  had  helped,  to  some  degree,  these 
childish  apprehensions. 

The  Highland  maid  had  brought  from  Colonsay  a 
flesh  that  crept  in  darkness,  a  brain  with  a  fantastic 
maggot  in  it;  she  declared  to  goodness,  and  to  Bud 
sometimes,  that  she  had  no  life  of  it  with  ghosts  in 
her  small  back  room.  But  Bud  was  not  to  let  on  to 
her  aunties.  Forbye  it  was  only  for  Kate  they  came, 
the  ghosts;  did  Bud  not  hear  them  last  night?  Geese! 
No,  not  geese,  Kate  knew  different,  and  if  the  thing 
lasted  much  longer  she  would  stay  no  more  in  this  town ; 
she  would  stay  nowhere,  she  would  just  go  back  to 
Colonsay.  Not  that  Colonsay  was  better;  there  were 
often  ghosts  in  Colonsay — in  the  winter- time,  and  then 
it  behooved  you  to  run  like  the  mischief,  or  have  a  fine 
strong  lad  with  you  for  your  convoy.  If  there  were 
no  ghosts  in  America  it  was  because  it  cost  too  much 
to  go  there  on  the  steamers.  Harken  to  yon — "Honk, 
honk!" — did  ever  you  hear  the  like  of  it?  Who  with 

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their  wits  about  them  in  weather  like  that  would  like 
to  be  a  ghost?  And  loud  above  the  wind  that  rocked 
the  burgh  in  the  cradle  of  the  hills,  loud  above  the  beat- 
ing rain,  the  creak  of  doors  and  rap  of  shutters  in  that 
old  house,  Bud  and  Kate  together  in  the  kitchen  heard 
again  the  "honk,  honk!"  of  the  geese.  Then  it  was 
for  the  child  that  she  missed  the  mighty  certainty  of 
Chicago,  that  Scotland  somehow  to  her  mind  seemed 
an  old  unhappy  place,  in  the  night  of  which  went  pass- 
ing Duncan,  murdered  in  his  sleep,  and  David  Rizzio 
with  the  daggers  in  his  breast,  and  Helen  of  Kirk- 
connel  Lee.  The  nights  but  rarely  brought  any  fear 
for  her  in  spite  of  poor  Kate's  ghosts,  since  the  warmth 
and  light  and  love  of  the  household  filled  every  corner 
of  lobby  and  stair,  and  went  to  bed  with  her.  When 
she  had  said  her  prayer  the  geese  might  cry,  the  timbers 
of  the  old  house  crack,  Bud  was  lapped  in  the  love  of 
God  and  man,  and  tranquil.  But  the  mornings 
dauntened  her  often  when  she  wakened  to  the  sound 
of  the  six-o'clock  bell.  She  would  feel,  when  it  ceased, 
as  if  all  virtue  were  out  of  last  night's  love  and  prayer. 
Then  all  Scotland  and  its  curious  scraps  of  history  as 
she  had  picked  it  up  weighed  on  her  spirit  for  a  time; 
the  house  was  dead  and  empty;  not  ghost  nor  goose 
made  her  eerie,  but  mankind's  old  inexplicable  alarms. 
How  deep  and  from  what  distant  shores  comes  child- 
hood's wild  surmise!  There  was  nothing  to  harm  her, 
she  knew,  but  the  strangeness  of  the  dawn  and  a 
craving  for  life  made  her  at  these  times  the  awakener 
of  the  other  dwellers  in  the  house  of  Dyce. 

She  would  get  out  of  bed  and  go  next  door  to  the 
room  of  Ailie,  and  creep  in  bed  beside  her  to  kiss  her 
for  a  little  from  her  dreams.  To  the  aunt  these  morn- 
ing visitations  were  precious:  she  would  take  the  bairn 

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to  her  bosom  and  fall  asleep  with  sighs  of  content, 
the  immaculate  mother.  Bud  herself  could  not  sleep 
then  for  watching  the  revelation  of  her  lovely  auntie 
in  the  dawn — the  cloud  on  the  pillow,  that  turned  to 
masses  of  hazel  hair,  the  cheeks  and  lips  that  seemed 
to  redden  like  flowers  as  the  day  dawned,  the  nook 
of  her  bosom,  the  pulse  of  her  brow. 

Other  mornings  Wanton  Wully's  bell  would  send 
her  in  to  Bell,  who  would  give  her  the  warm  hollow 
of  her  own  place  in  the  blankets,  while  she  herself  got 
up  to  dress  briskly  for  the  day's  affairs.  "Just  you 
lie  down  there,  pet,  and  sleepy -baw,"  she  would  say, 
tying  her  coats  with  trim  tight  knots.  "You  will  not 
grow  up  a  fine,  tall,  strong  girl  like  your  Auntie  Ailie 
if  you  do  not  take  your  sleep  when  you  can  get  it. 
The  morning  is  only  for  done  old  wives  like  me  that 
have  things  to  do  and  don't  grudge  doing  them." 

She  would  chatter  away  to  Bud  as  she  dressed,  a 
garrulous  auntie  this,  two  things  always  for  her  text 
— the  pride  of  Scotland,  and  the  virtue  of  duty  done. 
A  body,  she  would  say,  was  sometimes  liable  to  weary 
of  the  same  things  to  be  done  each  day,  the  same  tasks 
even-on,  fires  and  food  and  cleansing,  though  the 
mind  might  dwell  on  great  deeds  desirable  to  be  accom- 
plished, but  pleasure  never  came  till  the  thing  was  done 
that  was  the  first  to  hand,  even  if  it  was  only  darning 
a  stocking.  What  was  Bud  going  to  be  when  she  grew 
up?  Bud  guessed  she  wasn't  going  to  be  anything 
but  just  a  lady.  Ah,  yes,  but  even  ladies  had  to  do 
something  wise-like ;  there  was  Ailie — to  go  no  farther — 
who  could  have  managed  a  business  though  her  darn- 
ing was  but  lumpy.  Even  for  a  lady  there  was  nothing 
nobler  than  the  making  of  her  own  bed;  besides  the 
doctors  said  it  was  remarkably  efficacious  for  the  figure. 

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Bud,  snug  in  her  auntie's  blankets,  only  her  nose 
and  her  bright  bead  eyes  showing  in  the  light  of  the 
twirly  wooden  candlestick,  guessed  Mrs.  Molyneux 
was  the  quickest  woman  to  get  through  work  ever 
she  saw:  why!  she  jusfr  waved  it  to  one  side  and  went 
out  to  shop  or  lunch  with  Jim. 

A  look  of  pity  for  Mrs.  Molyneux,  the  misguided, 
would  come  to  Bell's  face,  but  for  those  folk  in  America 
she  never  had  a  word  of  criticism  in  the  presence  of 
the  child.  All  she  could  say  was  America  was  dif- 
ferent. America  was  not  Scotland.  And  Scotland 
was  not  England,  though  in  many  places  they  called 
Scotch  things  English. 

Jim  used  to  say,  speaking  of  father,  that  a  Scotsman 
was  a  kind  of  superior  Englishman. 

Bell  wished  to  goodness  she  could  see  the  man — he 
must  have  been  a  clever  one! 

Other  mornings  again  would  the  child  softly  open 
her  uncle's  door  and  he  would  get  a  terrible  fright, 
crying  "Robbers!  but  you'll  get  nothing.  I  have  my 
watch  in  my  boots,  and  my  money  in  my  mouth." 

She  would  creep  beside  him,  and  in  these  early 
hours  began  her  education.  She  was  learning  Ailie's 
calm  and  curiosity  and  ambition,  she  was  learning 
Bell's  ideas  of  duty  and  the  ancient  glory  of  her  adopted 
land;  from  her  uncle  she  was  learning  many  things,  of 
which  the  least  that  seemed  useful  at  the  time  was 
the  Lord's  Prayer  in  Latin.  Pater  noster  qui  es  in 
ccelis  —  that  and  a  few  hundred  of  Trayner's  Latin 
maxims  was  nearly  all  of  the  classic  tongue  that  sur- 
vived with  the  lawyer  from  student  days.  It  was  just 
as  good  and  effective  a  prayer  in  English,  he  admitted, 
but  somehow,  whiles,  the  language  was  so  old  it  brought 
you  into  closer  grips  with  the  original.  Some  mornings 

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she  would  hum  to  him  coon  songs  heard  in  her  formei 
home ;  and  if  he  was  in  trim  he  himself  would  sing  some 
psalm  to  the  tune  of  Coleshill,  French,  Bangor,  or  Tor- 
wood.  His  favorite  was  Torwood;  it  mourned  so — 
mourned  so!  Or  at  other  times  a  song  like  "Mary 
Morison." 

"What  are  you  bumming  away  at  up  there  the  pair 
of  you ?"  Bell  would  cry,  coming  to  the  stair-foot.  "If 
you  sing  before  breakfast,  you'll  greet  before  night!" 

"Don't  she  like  singing  in  the  morning?"  Bud  asked, 
nestling  beside  him,  and  he  laughed. 

"It's  an  old  freit  —  an  old  superstition,"  said  he, 
"that  it's  unlucky  to  begin  the  day  too  blithely.  It 
must  have  been  a  doctor  that  started  it,  but  you  would 
wonder  at  the  number  of  good  and  douce  Scots  folk, 
plain  bodies  like  ourselves,  that  have  the  notion  in 
their  mind  from  infancy,  and  never  venture  a  cheep 
or  chirrup  before  the  day's  well  aired." 

"My  stars,  ain't  she  Scotch,  Auntie  Bell!"  said 
Bud.  "So  was  father.  He  would  sing  any  time;  he 
would  sing  if  it  broke  a  tooth ;  but  he  was  pretty  Scotch 
other  ways.  Once  he  wore  a  pair  of  kilts  to  a  Cale — to 
a  Caledonian  club." 

"I  don't  keep  a  kilt  myself,"  said  her  uncle.  "The 
thing's  not  strictly  necessary  unless  you're  English 
and  have  a  Hielan'  shooting." 

"Auntie  Bell  is  the  genuine  Scotch  stuff,  I  guess!" 

"There's  no  concealing  the  fact  that  she  is,"  her 
uncle  admitted.  "She's  so  Scotch  that  I  am  afraid 
she's  apt  to  think  of  God  as  a  countryman  of  her  own." 

And  there  were  the   hours   that   Ailie   gave   with 
delight  to  Bud's  more   orthodox   tuition.     The  back 
room  that  was  called  Dan's  study,  because  he  some- 
times took  a  nap  there  after  dinner,  became  a  school- 
loo 

iff  . 


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room.  There  was  a  Mercator's  map  of  the  world  on 
the  wall,  and  another  of  Europe,  that  of  themselves 
gave  the  place  the  right  academy  aspect.  With  imagi- 
nation, a  map,  and  The  Golden  Treasury  you  might 
have  as  good  as  a  college  education,  according  to  Ailie. 
They  went  long  voyages  together  on  Mercator;  saw 
marvellous  places;  shivered  at  the  poles  or  languished 
in  torrid  plains,  sometimes  before  Kate  could  ring  the 
bell  for  breakfast.  There  seemed  no  spot  in  the  world 
that  this  clever  auntie  had  not  some  knowledge  of. 
How  eagerly  they  crossed  continents,  how  ingeniously 
they  planned  routes!  For  the  lengths  of  rivers,  the 
heights  of  mountains,  the  values  of  exports,  and  all 
the  trivial  passing  facts  that  mar  the  great  game  of 
geography  for  many  childish  minds,  they  had  small 
consideration ;  what  they  gathered  in  their  travels  were 
sounds,  colors,  scenes,  weather,  and  the  look  of  races. 
What  adventures  they  had !  as  when,  pursued  by  ele- 
phants and  tigers,  they  sped  in  a  flash  from  Bengal  to 
the  Isle  of  Venice,  and  saw  the  green  slime  of  the  sea 
on  her  steeping  palaces.  Yes,  the  world  is  all  for  the 
folk  of  imagination.  "Love  maps  and  you  will  never 
be  too  old  or  too  poor  to  travel,"  was  Ailie's  motto. 
She  found  a  hero  or  a  heroine  for  every  spot  upon 
Mercator,  and  nourished  so  the  child  in  noble  admi- 
rations. 

You  might  think  it  would  always  be  the  same  pupil 
and  the  same  teacher,  but  no,  they  sometimes  changed 
places.  If  Ailie  taught  Bud  her  own  love  for  the  lyrics 
that  are  the  best  work  of  men  in  their  hours  of  exalta- 
tion, Bud  sent  Ailie  back  to  her  Shakespeare,  and  sweet 
were  the  days  they  spent  in  Arden  or  Prospero's  Isle. 

It  was  well  with  them  then;  it  was  well  with  the 
woman  and  the  child,  and  they  were  happy. 

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CHAPTER  XI 

BUT  the  Dyces  never  really  knew  how  great  and 
serious  was  the  charge  bequeathed  to  them  in  their 
brother  William's  daughter  till  they  saw  it  all  one 
night  in  March  in  the  light  of  a  dozen  penny  candles. 

Lennox  had  come  from  a  world  that's  lit  by  elec- 
tricity, and  for  weeks  she  was  sustained  in  wonder 
and  amusement  by  the  paraffine  lamps  of  Daniel  Dyce's 
dwelling.  They  were,  she  was  sure,  the  oldest  kind 
of  light  in  all  the  world — Aladdin-lights  that  gleamed 
of  old  on  caverns  of  gems — till  Kate  on  this  particular 
evening  came  into  the  kitchen  with  the  week  -  end 
groceries.  It  was  a  stormy  season — the  year  of  the 
big  winds;  moanings  were  at  the  windows,  sobbings  in 
the  chimney-heads,  and  the  street  was  swept  by  spin- 
drift rain.  Bell  and  Ailie  and  their  brother  sat  in  the 
parlor,  silent,  playing  cards  with  a  dummy  hand,  and 
Bud,  with  Footles  in  her  lap,  behind  the  winter  dikes 
on  which  clothes  dried  before  the  kitchen  fire,  crouched 
on  the  fender  with  a  Shakespeare,  where  almost  breath- 
lessly she  read  the  great,  the  glorious  Macbeth. 

"My  stars,  what  a  night!"  said  Kate.  "The  way 
them  slates  and  chimney-cans  are  flying!  It  must  be 
the  antinuptial  gales.  I  thought  every  minute  would 
by  my  next.  Oh,  towns!  towns!  Stop  you  till  I  get 
back  to  Colonsay,  and  I'll  not  leave  it  in  a  hurry,  I'll 
assure  you." 

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She  threw  a  parcel  on  the  kitchen  dresser,  and  turned 
to  the  light  a  round  and  rosy  face  that  streamed  with 
clean,  cooling  rain,  her  hair  in  tangles  on  her  temples 
and  her  eyes  sparkling  with  the  light  of  youth  and  ad- 
venture— for  to  tell  the  truth  she  had  been  flirting  at 
the  door  a  while,  in  spite  of  all  the  rain,  with  some 
admirer. 

Bud  was  the  sort  of  child  whose  fingers  itch  in  the 
presence  of  unopened  parcels — in  a  moment  the  string 
was  untied  from  the  week-end  groceries. 

"Candles!"  she  cried.  "Well,  that  beats  the  band! 
I've  seen  'em  in  windows.  What  in  the  world  are  you 
going  to  do  with  candles?  One,  two,  three,  four,  five, 
six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve — oh,  Laura, 
ain't  we  grand!" 

"What  would  we  do  with  them  but  burn  them?" 
said  the  maid;  "we'll  use  them  in  the  washing-house," 
and  then  she  sank  into  a  chair.  "Mercy  on  me,  I 
declare  I'm  dying!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  different  key, 
and  Bud  looked  round  and  saw  Kate's  face  had  grown 
of  a  sudden  very  pale. 

"Oh,  dear!  what  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  her  eyes 
large,  innocent,  and  anxious. 

"Pains,"  moaned  the  maid.  "Pains  inside  me  and 
all  over  me,  and  shiverings  down  the  spine  of  the  back. 
Oh,  it's  a  sore  thing  pain,  especially  when  it's  bad! 
But  don't — don't  say  a  word  to  the  mustress;  I'm  not 
that  old,  and  maybe  I'll  get  better." 

"Try  pain-killer,"  recommended  Bud.  "And  if  I 
was  you  I'd  start  just  here  and  say  a  prayer.  Butt 
right  in  and  I'll  not  listen." 

"Pain-killer! — what  in  all  the  world's  pain-killer? 
I  never  heard  of  it.  And  the  only  prayer  I  know  is 
'My  Father  which  art'  in  Gaelic,  and  there's  nothing 

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in  it  about  pains  in  the  spine  of  the  back.  No,  no! 
I'll  just  have  to  take  a  table-spoonful  of  something 
or  other  three  times  a  day,  the  way  I  did  when  the 
doctor  put  me  right  in  Colonsay.  Perhaps  it's  just 
a  chill,  but  oh!  I'm  sorrowful,  sorrowful!"  and  Kate, 
the  color  coming  slowly  back  to  her,  wept  softly  to  her- 
self, rocking  in  the  kitchen  chair.  It  was  sometimes 
by  those  odd  hysterics  that  she  paid  for  her  elations 
with  the  lads. 

"I  know  what's  wrong  with  you,"  said  Bud,  briskly, 
in  the  manner  of  Mrs.  Molyneux.  "It's  just  the  croo- 
dles.  Bless  you,  you  poor,  perishing  soul!  I  take  the 
croodles  myself  when  it's  a  night  like  this  and  I'm 
alone.  The  croodles  ain't  the  least  wee  bit  deadly; 
you  can  put  them  away  by  hustling  at  your  work,  or 
banging  an  old  piano,  or  reading  a  story,  or  playing 
that  you're  somebody  else —  Well,  I  declare,  I  think  I 
could  cure  you  right  now  with  these  twelve  candles, 
far  better  than  you'd  do  by  shooting  drugs  into  your- 
self." 

"I  never  took  a  single  candle  in  all  my  life,"  said 
Kate,  "far  less  twelve,  and  I'll  die  first." 

"Silly!"  exclaimed  Bud.  "You'd  think  to  hear  you 
speak  you  were  a  starving  Esquimau.  I  don't  want 
you  to  eat  the  candles.  Wait  a  minute."  She  ran 
lightly  up-stairs  and  was  gone  for  ten  minutes. 

Kate's  color  all  revived;  she  forgot  her  croodles 
in  the  spirit  of  anticipation  that  the  child  had  roused. 
"Oh,  but  she's  the  clever  one  that!"  she  said  to  her- 
self, drying  the  rain  and  tears  from  her  face  and  start- 
ing to  nibble  a  biscuit.  "She  knows  as  much  as  two 
ministers,  and  still  she's  not  a  bit  proud.  Some  day 
she'll  do  something  desperate." 

When  Bud  came  back  she  startled  the  maid  by 
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her  appearance,  for  she  had  clad  herself,  for  the  first 
time  in  Scotland,  with  a  long,  thin,  copious  dancing- 
gown,  in  which  a  lady  of  the  vaudeville,  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Molyneux's,  had  taught  her  dancing. 

"Ain't  this  dandy?"  she  said,  closing  the  kitchen 
door,  and  there  was  a  glow  upon  her  countenance  and 
a  movement  of  her  body  that,  to  the  maid's  eyes,  made 
her  look  a  little  woman.  "Ain't  this  bully?  Don't 
you  stand  there  looking  like  a  dying  Welsh  rabbit,  but 
help  me  light  them  candles  for  the  foot-lights.  Why, 
I  knew  there  was  some  use  for  these  old  candles  first 
time  I  set  eyes  on  them ;  they  made  me  think  of  some- 
thing I  couldn't  'zactly  think  of — made  me  kind  of 
gay,  you  know,  just  as  if  I  was  going  to  the  theatre. 
They're  only  candles,  but  there's  twelve  lights  to'them 
all  at  once,  and  now  you'll  see  some  fun." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  going  to  do,  lassie?" 
asked  the  maid. 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  Gorgeous  Entertainment;  I'm 
going  to  be  the  Greatest  Agg-Aggregation  of  Historic 
Talent  now  touring  the  Middle  West.  I'm  Madem- 
oiselle Winifred  Wallace,  of  Madison  Square  Theatre, 
New  York,  positively  appearing  here  for  one  night 
only.  I'm  the  whole  company,  and  the  stage  manager, 
and  the  band,  and  the  boys  that  throw  the  bouquets. 
Biff!  I'm  checked  high;  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  sit 
there  with  your  poor  croodles  and  feel  them  melt  away. 
Let's  light  the  foot-lights." 

There  was  a  row  of  old  brass  bedroom  candlesticks 
on  the  kitchen  shelf  that  were  seldom  used  now  in 
the  house  of  Dyce,  though  their  polish  was  the  glory 
of  Miss  Bell's  heart.  The  child  kilted  up  her  gown, 
jumped  on  a  chair,  and  took  them  down  with  the 
help  of  Kate.  She  stuck  in  each  a  candle,  and  ranged 

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them  in  a  semicircle  on  the  floor,  then  lit  the  candles 
and  took  her  place  behind  them. 

"Put  out  the  lamp!"  she  said  to  Kate,  in  the  com- 
mon voice  of  actors'  tragedy. 

"Indeed  and  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the 
maid.  "If  your  auntie  Bell  comes  in  she'll  —  she'll 
skin  me  alive  for  letting  you  play  such  cantrips  with 
her  candles.  Forbye,  you're  going  to  do  something 
desperate,  something  that's  not  canny,  and  I  must 
have  the  lamp  behind  me  or  I'll  lose  my  wits." 

"Woman,  put  out  the  light!"  repeated  Bud,  with 
an  imperious,  pointing  ringer,  and,  trembling,  Kate 
turned  down  the  lamp  upon  the  wall  and  blew  down 
the  chimney  in  the  very  way  Miss  Dyce  was  always 
warning  her  against.  She  gasped  at  the  sudden  change 
the  loss  of  the  light  made — at  the  sense  of  something 
idolatrous  and  bewitched  in  the  arc  of  flames  on  her 
kitchen  floor,  each  blown  inward  from  the  draught  of  a 
rattling  window. 

"If  it  is  buidseachas — if  it  is  witchcraft  of  any  kind 
you  are  on  for,  I'll  not  have  it,"  said  Kate,  firmly.  "I 
never  saw  the  like  of  this  since  the  old  woman  in 
Pennyland  put  the  curse  on  the  Colonsay  factor,  and 
she  had  only  seven  candles.  Dear,  dear  Lennox,  do 
not  do  anything  desperate;  do  not  be  carrying  on, 
for  you  are  frightening  me  out  of  my  judgment.  I'm 
— I'm  maybe  better  now;  I  took  a  bite  at  a  biscuit; 
indeed,  I'm  quite  better;  it  was  nothing  but  the  cold — 
and  a  lad  out  there  that  tried  to  kiss  me." 

Bud  paid  no  heed,  but  plucked  up  the  edges  of  her 
skirt  in  out-stretched  hands  and  glided  into  the  last 
dance  she  had  learned  from  the  vaudeville  lady, 
humming  softly  to  herself  an  appropriate  tune.  The 
candles  warmly  lit  her  neck,  her  ears,  her  tilted  nos- 

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trils;  her  brow  was  high  in  shadow.  First  she  rose  on 
tiptoe  and  made  her  feet  to  twitter  on  the  flags,  then 
swayed  and  swung  a  little  body  that  seemed  to  hang 
in  air.  The  white  silk  swept  around  and  over  her — 
wings  with  no  noise  of  flapping  feather,  or  swirled  in 
sea-shell  coils,  that  rose  in  a  ripple  from  her  ankles 
and  swelled  in  wide,  circling  waves  above  her  head, 
revealing  her  in  glimpses  like  some  creature  born  of 
foam  on  fairy  beaches  and  holding  the  command  of 
tempest  winds.  Ah,  dear  me!  many  and  many  a 
time  I  saw  her  dance  just  so  in  her  daft  days  before 
the  chill  of  wisdom  and  reflection  came  her  way; 
she  was  a  passion  disembodied,  an  aspiration  realized, 
a  happy  morning  thought,  a  vapor,  a  perfume  of 
flowers,  for  her  attire  had  lain  in  lavender.  She  was 
the  spirit  of  spring,  as  I  have  felt  it  long  ago  in  little 
woods,  or  seen  it  in  pictures,  or  heard  it  in  songs; 
she  was  an  ecstasy,  she  was  a  dream. 

The  dog  gave  a  growl  of  astonishment,  then  lay  his 
length  on  the  hearth-rug,  his  nose  between  his  paws, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  "I'll  not  have  it,"  said  the 
maid,  piteously.  "At  least  I'll  not  stand  much  of 
it,  for  it's  not  canny  to  be  carrying  on  like  that  in 
a  Christian  dwelling.  I  never  did  the  like  of  that  in 
all  my  life." 

"Every  move  a  picture,"  said  the  child,  and  still 
danced  on,  with  the  moan  of  the  wind  outside  for  a 
bass  to  her  low-hummed  melody.  Her  stretching 
folds  flew  high,  till  she  seemed  miraculous  tall,  and 
to  the  servant's  fancy  might  have  touched  the  low 
ceiling;  then  she  sank — and  sank — and  sank  till  her 
forehead  touched  the  floor,  and  she  was  a  flower  fallen, 
the  wind  no  more  to  stir  its  petals,  the  rain  no  more 
to  glisten  on  its  leaves.  'Twas  as  if  she  shrivelled 

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and  died  there,  and  Kate  gave  one  little  cry  that 
reached  the  players  of  cards  in  the  parlor. 

"Hush!  what  noise  was  that?"  said  Ailie,  lifting  her 
head. 

"It  would  be  Kate  clumping  across  the  kitchen  floor 
in  the  Gaelic  language,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  pushing  his 
specs  up  on  his  brow. 

"Nothing  but  the  wind,"  said  Bell.  "What  did  you  say 
was  trump?" — for  that  was  the  kind  of  player  she  was. 

"It  was  not  the  wind,  it  was  a  cry;  I'm  sure  I  heard 
a  cry.  I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong  with  the  little 
one,"  said  Ailie,  with  a  throbbing  heart,. and  she  threw 
her  cards  on  the  table  and  went  out.  She  came  back 
in  a  moment,  her  face  betraying  her  excitement,  her 
voice  demanding  silence. 

"Of  all  the  wonders!"  said  she.  "Just  step  this 
way,  people,  to  the  pantry." 

They  rose  and  followed  her.  The  pantry  was  all 
darkness.  Through  its  partly  open  door  that  led  into 
the  kitchen  they  saw  their  child  in  the  crescent  of  the 
candles,  though  she  could  not  see  them,  as  no  more 
could  Kate,  whose  chair  was  turned  the  other  way. 
They  stood  in  silence  watching  the  strange  perform- 
ance, each  with  different  feelings,  but  all  with  eeriness, 
silent  people  of  the  placid,  old,  half-rustic  world  that 
lives  forever  with  realities  and  seldom  sees  the  pas- 
sions counterfeited. 

Bud  had  risen,  her  dark  hair  looking  unnaturally 
black  above  her  brow,  and,  her  dancing  done,  she  was 
facing  the  dog  and  the  servant,  the  only  audience  of 
whose  presence  she  was  aware. 

"Toots!"  said  the  maid,  relieved  that  all  seemed 
over,  "that's  nothing  in  the  way  of  dancing;  you 
should  see  them  dancing  Gillie-Callum  over-bye  in 

1 08 


BUD 

Colonsay!  There's  a  dancer  so  strong  there  that  he 
breaks  the  very  boards." 

Bud  looked  at  her,  and  yet  not  wholly  at  her — 
through  her — with  burning  eyes. 

"Hush!"  she  said,  trembling.  "Do  you  not  hear 
something?"  and  at  that  moment,  high  over  the  town 
went  the  "honk,  honk"  of  the  wild  geese. 

"Devil  the  thing  but  geeses!"  said  the  maid,  whose 
blood  had  curdled  for  a  second.  The  rain  swept  like 
a  broom  along  the  street,  the  gutters  bubbled,  the 
shutters  rapped,  far  above  the  dwelling  went  the  sound 
of  the  flying  geese. 

"Oh,  hush,  woman,  hush!"  implored  the  child,  her 
hands  over  her  ears,  her  figure  cowering. 

"It's  only  the  geeses.  What  a  start  you  gave  me!" 
said  the  maid  again. 

"No,  no,"  said  Bud. 

"'Methought,  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  "Sleep  no  more! 
Macbeth  does  murder    sleep,"  the  innocent  sleep; 
Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleave  of  care, 
...   sore  labor's  bath, 

Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast — '  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Kate. 

"Still  it  cried,  'Sleep  no  more!'  to  all  the  house: 
Glamis  hath  murder 'd  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
shall  sleep  no  more;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more." 

The  child  filled  each  phrase  with  a  travesty  of  pas- 
sion; she  had  seen  the  part  enacted.  It  was  not,  to  be 
sure,  a  great  performance.  Some  words  were  strangely 
mutilated;  but  it  was  a  child,  and  she  had  more  than 
a  child's  command  of  passion — she  had  feeling,  she  had 
heart. 

a  109 


BUD 

"I  cannot  look  at  you!"  exclaimed  Kate.  "You 
are  not  canny,  but  oh!  you  are — you  are  majestic! 
There  was  never  the  like  of  it  in  all  the  isles." 

Bell,  in  the  darkness  of  the  pantry,  wept  silently  at 
some  sense  of  sin  in  this  play-acting  on  a  Saturday 
night;  her  brother  held  her  arm  tightly.  Ailie  felt 
a  vague  unrest  and  discontent  with  herself,  a  touch 
of  envy  and  of  shame. 

"Please  collect  the  bouquets,"  said  the  child,  seating 
herself  on  the  floor  with  her  knees  tucked  high  in  her 
gown.  "Are  the  croodles  all  gone?" 

"It  did  me  a  lot  of  good,  yon  dancing,"  said  Kate. 
"Did  you  put  yon  words  about  Macbeth  sleep  no  more 
together  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bud,  and  then  repented.  "No,"  she 
added,  hurriedly,  "that's  a  fib;  please,  God,  give  me 
a  true  tongue.  It  was  made  by  Shakespeare — dear 
old  Will!" 

"I'm  sure  I  never  heard  of  the  man  in  all  my  life 
before;  but  he  must  have  been  a  bad  one." 

"Why,  Kate,  you  are  as  fresh  as  the'  mountain 
breeze,"  said  Bud.  "He  was  Great!  He  was  born 
at  Stratford-on-Avon,  a  poor  boy,  and  went  to  London 
and  held  horses  outside  the  theatre  door,  and  then 
wrote  plays  so  grand  that  only  the  best  can  act  them. 
He  was — he  was  not  for  an  age,  but  all  the  time." 

She  had  borrowed  the  lesson  as  well  as  the  manner 
of  Auntie  Ailie,  who  smiled  in  the  dark  of  the  pantry 
at  this  glib  rendering  of  herself. 

"Oh,  I  should  love  to  play  Rosalind,"  continued 
the  child.  "I  should  love  to  play  everything.  When 
I  am  big,  and  really  Winifred  Wallace,  I  will  go  all 
over  the  world  and  put  away  people's  croodles  same 
as  I  did  yours,  Kate,  and  they  will  love  me;  and  I 

no 


BUD 

will  make  them  feel  real  good,  and  sometimes  cry 
— for  that  is  beautiful,  too.  I  will  never  rest,  but  go 
on,  and  on,  and  on;  and  everywhere  everybody  will 
know  about  me — even  in  the  tiny  minstrel  towns  where 
they  have  no  or'nary  luck  but  just  coon  shows,  for  it's 
in  these  places  croodles  must  be  most  catching.  I'll 
go  there  and  play  for  nothing,  just  to  show  them  what  a 
dear  soul  Rosalind  was.  I  want  to  grow  fast,  fast!  I 
want  to  be  tall  like  my  auntie  Ailie,  and  lovely  like 
my  dear  auntie  Ailie,  and  clever  like  my  sweet,  sweet 
aunt  Ailie." 

"She's  big  enough  and  bonny  enough,  and  clever 
enough  in  some  things,"  said  the  maid,  "but  can  she 
sew  like  her  sister? — tell  me  that!" 

"Sew!"  exclaimed  the  child,  with  a  frown.  "I  hate 
sewing.  I  guess  Auntie  Ailie's  like  me,  and  feels  sick 
when  she  starts  a  hem  and  sees  how  long  it  is,  and  all 
to  be  gone  over  with  small  stitches." 

"Indeed,  indeed  I  do,"  whispered  Ailie  in  the  pantry, 
and  she  was  trembling.  She  told  me  later  how  she 
felt — of  her  conviction  then  that  for  her  the  years 
of  opportunity  were  gone,  the  golden  years  that  had 
slipped  past  in  the  little  burgh  town  without  a  chance 
for  her  to  grasp  their  offerings.  She  told  me  of  her 
resolution  there  and  then  that  this  child,  at  least,  should 
have  its  freedom  to  expand. 

Bud  crept  to  the  end  of  the  crescent  of  her  foot- 
lights and  blew  out  the  candles  slowly  one  by  one. 
The  last  she  left  a-light  a  little  longer,  and,  crouched 
upon  the  floor,  she  gazed  with  large,  dreaming  eyes 
into  its  flame  as  if  she  read  there. 

"It  is  over  now,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  in  a  whisper,  to 
his  sisters,  and  with  his  hands  on  their  shoulders  led 
them  back  into  the  parlor. 

in 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHE  was  wayward,  she  was  passionate,  she  was  some- 
times wild.  She  was  not  what,  in  the  Pigeons' 
Seminary,  could  be  called  a  good  child,  for  all  her 
sins  were  frankly  manifest,  and  she  knew  no  fear  nor 
naughty  stratagem;  her  mind,  to  all  but  Kate,  was 
open  as  the  day,  and  there  it  was  the  fault  of  honest 
Kate's  stupidity.  But  often  Miss  Bell  must  be  moan- 
ing at  transgressions  almost  harmless  in  themselves, 
yet  so  terribly  unlike  a  Christian  bairn,  as  when  Bud 
spent  an  afternoon  in  a  tent  with  some  gypsy  children, 
changed  clothes  with  them  the  better  to  act  a  part, 
and  stormed  because  she  could  not  have  them  in  to 
tea  with  her.  Or  when  she  asked  Lady  Anne,  bazaar- 
collecting  in  the  house  of  Dyce,  if  she  ever  had  had  a 
proposal.  It  was  a  mercy  that  Lady  Anne  that  very 
week  had  had  one,  and  was  only  too  pleased  to  tell  of 
it  and  say  she  had  accepted. 

"Then  you're  safe  out  of  the  woods,"  said  Bud, 
gravely.  "There's  our  Kate,  she  hasn't  had  a  pro- 
posal yet,  and  I  guess  she's  on  the  slopey  side  of 
thirty.  It  must  be  dreff'le  to  be  as  old — as  old  as  a 
house  and  have  no  beau  to  love  you.  It  must  be 
'scruciating." 

Lady  Anne  let  her  eyes  turn  for  a  moment  on  the 
sisters  Dyce,  and  the  child  observed  and  reddened. 

"Oh,  Auntie  Bell!"  she  said,  quickly.  "Auntie  Bell 
112 


BUD 

had  heaps  and  heaps  of  beaux  all  dying  to  marry  her, 
but  she  gave  them  the  calm,  cold  eye  and  said  she  had 
to  cling  to  Uncle  Dan.  It  was  very  noble  of  her, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Indeed  it  was!"  admitted  Lady  Anne,  very  much 
ashamed  of  herself. 

"And  Auntie  Ailie  is  not  on  the  slopey  side  of 
thirty,"  continued  Bud,  determined  to  make  all  amends. 
"She's  young  enough  to  love  dolls." 

It  was  Bell  who  censured  her  for  this  dreadful  be- 
havior. "You  are  a  perfect  torment,  Lennox,"  she 
said,  at  the  first  opportunity.  "A  bairn  like  you  must 
not  be  talking  about  beaux,  and  love,  and  proposals, 
and  nonsense  of  that  kind — it's  fair  ridiculous." 

"Why,  I  thought  love  was  the  Great  Thing!"  ex- 
claimed Bud,  much  astonished.  "It's  in  all  the  books, 
there's  hardly  anything  else,  'cept  when  somebody 
is  murdered  and  you  know  that  the  man  who  did  it 
is  the  only  one  you  don't  suspect.  Indeed,  auntie,  I 
thought  it  was  the  Great  Thing!" 

"And  so  it  is,  my  dear,"  said  Ailie.  "There's  very 
little  else  in  all  the  world,  except — except  the  children," 
and  she  folded  her  niece  in  her  arms.  "  It  is  the  Great 
Thing;  it  has  made  Lady  Anne  prettier  than  ever  she 
was  in  her  life  before,  it  has  made  her  brighter,  humbler, 
gentler,  kinder.  God  bless  her,  I  hope  she  will  be 
happy." 

"But  it  was  very  wrong;  it  was  a  kind  of  fib  for  you 
to  talk  about  me  having  lots  of  lads  in  my  time,"  said 
Auntie  Bell.  "You  do  not  know  whether  I  had  or 
not." 

Bud  looked  at  her  and  saw  a  flush  on  her  face.  "I 
think,"  said  she,  "the  beaux  must  have  been  very 
stupid,  then.  But  I  guess  there  must  have  been  one, 

"3 


BUD 

Auntie  Bell,  and  you  have  forgotten  all  about  him." 
And  at  that  Miss  Bell  went  hurriedly  from  the  room 
with  a  pretence  that  she  heard  a  pot  boil  over,  and 
Ailie  in  a  low  voice  told  her  niece  all  about  Bell's  beau, 
deep  drowned  in  the  Indian  Ocean. 

For  days  after  that  the  child  was  tender  with  her 
elder  aunt,  and  made  a  splendid  poem  in  blank  verse 
upon  the  late  Captain  James  Murray,  which  Bell  was 
never  to  see,  but  Ailie  treasured.  For  days  was  she 
angelic  good.  Her  rages  never  came  to  fever  heat. 
Her  rebellions  burned  themselves  out  in  her  bosom. 
Nobly  she  struggled  with  long  division  and  the 
grammar  that  she  abominated;  very  meekly  she  took 
censure  for  copy-books  blotted  and  words  shamefully 
misspelled  in  Uncle  Daniel's  study.  Some  way  this 
love  that  she  had  thought  a  mere  amusement,  like 
shopping  in  Chicago,  took  a  new  complexion  in  her 
mind  —  became  a  dear  and  solemn  thing,  like  her 
uncle's  Bible  readings,  when,  on  Sunday  nights  at 
worship  in  the  parlor,  he  took  his  audience  through 
the  desert  to  the  Promised  Land,  and  the  abandoned 
street  was  vocal  with  domestic  psalm  from  the  provost's 
open  window.  She  could  not  guess — how  could  she, 
the  child? — that  love  has  its  variety.  She  thought 
there  was  but  the  one  love  in  all  the  world — the  same 
she  felt  herself  for  most  things — a  gladness  and  agree- 
ment with  things  as  they  were.  And  yet  at  times  in 
her  reading  she  got  glimpses  of  love's  terror  and  em- 
pire, as  in  the  stories  of  Othello  and  of  Amy  Robsart, 
and  herself  began  to  wish  she  had  a  lover.  She  thought 
at  first  of  Uncle  Dan ;  but  he  could  not  be  serious,  and 
she  had  never  heard  him  sigh — in  him  was  wanting 
some  remove,  some  mystery.  What  she  wanted  was  a 
lover  on  a  milk-white  steed,  a  prince  who  was  "the 

114 


BUD 

flower  o'  them  a',"  as  in  Aunt  Ailie's  song  "Glenlogie"; 
and  she  could  not  imagine  Uncle  Dan  with  his  spectacles 
on  riding  any  kind  of  steed,  though  she  felt  it  would  be 
nice  to  have  him  with  her  when  the  real  prince  was 
there. 

Do  you  think  it  unlikely  that  this  child  should  have 
such  dreams?  Ah,  then,  you  are  not  of  her  number, 
or  you  have  forgotten.  She  never  forgot.  Many  a 
time  she  told  me  in  after  years  of  how  in  the  attic 
bower,  with  Footles  snug  at  her  feet,  she  conjured  up 
the  lad  on  the  milk-white  steed,  not  so  much  for  him- 
self alone,  but  that  she  might  act  the  lady-love.  And 
in  those  dreams  she  was  tall  and  slender,  sometimes 
proud,  disdainful,  wounding  the  poor  wretch  with 
sharp  words  and  cold  glances;  or  she  was  meek  and 
languishing,  sighing  out  her  heart  even  in  presence  of 
his  true-love  gifts  of  candy  and  P.  &  A.  MacGlashan's 
penny  tarts.  She  walked  with  him  in  gardens  en- 
chanted; they  sailed  at  nights  over  calm,  moonlit  seas, 
and  she  would  be  playing  the  lute.  She  did  not  know 
what  the  lute  was  like;  but  it  was  the  instrument  of 
love,  and  had  a  dulcet  sound,  like  the  alto  flutes  in  the 
burgh  band. 

But,  of  course,  no  fairy  prince  came  wooing  Daniel 
Dyce's  little  niece,  though  men  there  were  in  the 
place  —  elderly  and  bald,  with  married  daughters  — 
who  tried  to  buy  her  kisses  for  sixpences  and  sweets, 
and  at  last  she  felt  vicariously  the  joys  of  love  by 
conducting  the  affairs  of  Kate. 

Kate  had  many  wooers — that  is  the  solace  of  her 
class.  They  liked  her  that  she  was  genial  and  plump, 
with  a  flattering  smile  and  a  soft  touch  of  the  Gaelic 
accent  that  in  the  proper  key  and  hour  is  the  thing 
to  break  hearts.  She  twirled  them  all  round  her 

"5 


BUD 

little  finger,  and  Bud  was  soon  to  see  this  and  to 
learn  that  the  maid  was  still  very  far  from  the  slopey 
side  of  thirty.  But  Kate,  too,  had  her  dreams — of 
some  misty  lad  of  the  mind,  with  short,  curled  hair, 
clothes  brass-buttoned,  and  a  delicious  smell  of  tar — 
something  or  other  on  a  yacht.  The  name  she  had 
endowed  him  with  was  Charles.  She  made  him  up 
from  passing  visions  of  seamen  on  the  quays,  and  of 
notions  gleaned  from  her  reading  of  penny  novelettes. 

One  week-night  Bud  came  on  her  in  the  kitchen 
dressed  in  her  Sunday  clothes  and  struggling  with  a 
spluttering  pen. 

"Are  you  at  your  lessons,  too?"  said  the  child. 
"You  naughty  Kate!  there's  a  horrid  blot.  No  lady 
makes  blots." 

"It  wasn't  me.it  was  this  devilish  pen,  besides,  I'm 
not  a  lady,"  said  Kate,  licking  the  latest  blot  with 
her  tongue  and  grimacing.  "What  way  do  you  spell 
weather?" 

"W-e-t-h-e-r,"  said  Bud.  "At  least,  I  think  that's 
the  way;  but  I'd  best  run  and  ask  Aunt  Ailie — she's 
a  speller  from  Spellerville." 

"Indeed  and  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  cried 
the  maid,  alarmed  and  reddening.  "You'll  do  noth- 
ing of  the  kind,  Lennox,  because  —  I'm  writing  to 
Charles." 

"A  love-letter!  Oh,  I've  got  you  with  the  goods 
on  you!"  exclaimed  Bud,  enchanted.  "And  what  are 
you  doing  with  your  hurrah  clothes  on?" 

"I  like  to  put  on  my  Sunday  clothes  when  I'm  writ- 
ing Charles,"  said  the  maid,  a  little  put-about.  "Do 
you  think  it's  kind  of  daft?" 

"It's  not  daft  at  all,  it's  real  cute  of  you;  it's  what 
I  do  myself  when  I'm  writing  love-letters,  for  it  makes 

116 


BUD 

me  feel  kind  of  grander.  It's  just  the  same  with 
poetry;  I  simply  can't  make  really  poetry  unless  I  have 
on  a  nice  frock  and  my  hands  washed." 

"You  write  love-letters!"  said  the  maid,  astounded. 

"Yes,  you  poor,  perishing  soul!"  retorted  Bud. 
"And  you  needn't  yelp.  I've  written  scores  of  love- 
letters  without  stopping  to  take  breath.  Stop!  stop!" 
she  interrupted  herself,  and  breathed  an  inward  little 
prayer.  "I  mean  that  I  write  them — well,  kind  of  write 
them— in  my  mind."  But  this  was  a  qualification 
beyond  Kate's  comprehension. 

"Then  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  hand  with  this 
one,"  said  she,  despairingly.  "All  the  nice  words  are 
so  hard  to  spell,  and  this  is  such  a  bad  pen." 

"They're  all  bad  pens;  they're  all  devilish,"  said 
Bud,  from  long  experience.  "But  I'd  love  to  help 
you  write  that  letter.  Let  me  see — pooh!  it's  dreff'le 
bad,  Kate.  I  can't  read  a  bit  of  it,  almost." 

"I'm  sure  and  neither  can  I,"  said  Kate,  distressed. 

"Then  how  in  the  world  do  you  expect  Charles  to 
read  it?"  asked  Bud. 

"Oh,  he's  —  he's  a  better  scholar  than  me,"  said 
Kate,  complacently.  "But  you  might  write  this  one 
for  me." 

Bud  washed  her  hands,  took  a  chair  to  the  kitchen 
table,  threw  back  her  hair  from  her  eyes,  and  eagerly 
entered  into  the  office  of  love-letter-writer.  "What 
will  I  say  to  him?"  she  asked. 

"My  dear,  dear  Charles,"  said  the  maid,  who  at 
least  knew  so  much. 

"My  adorable  Charles,"  said  Bud,  as  an  improve- 
ment, and  down  it  went  with  the  consent  of  the  dictator. 

"I'm  keeping  fine,  and  I'm  very  busy,"  suggested 
Kate,  upon  deliberation.  "The  weather  is  capital 


BUD 

here  at  present,  and  it  is  a  good  thing,  for  the  farmers 
are  busy  with  their  hay." 

Bud  sat  back  and  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  "Are 
you  sure  this  is  for  a  Charles?"  she  asked.  "You 
might  as  well  call  him  Sissy  and  talk  frocks.  Why, 
you  must  tell  him  how  you  love  him." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like,"  said  Kate,  confused.  "It  sounds 
so  —  so  bold  and  impudent  when  you  put  it  in  the 
English  and  write  it  down.  But  please  yourself;  put 
down  what  you  like  and  I'll  be  dipping  the  pen  for 
you." 

Bud  was  not  slow  to  take  the  opportunity.  For  half 
an  hour  she  sat  at  the  kitchen  table  and  searched  her 
soul  for  fitting  words  that  would  convey  Kate's  ado- 
ration. Once  or  twice  the  maid  asked  what  she  was 
writing,  but  all  she  said  was:  "Don't  worry,  Kate. 
I'm  right  in  the  throes."  There  were  blots  and  there 
were  erasions,  but  something  like  this  did  the  epistle 
look  when  it  was  done: 

"Mv  ADORABLE  CHARLES, — I  am  writeing  this  letter  to  let 
you  know  how  much  I  truly  love  you.  Oh  Charles,  dear,  you 
are  the  Joy  of  my  heart.  I  am  thinking  of  you  so  often,  often, 
till  my  Heart  just  aches.  It  is  lovely  wether  here  at  present. 
Now  .1  will  tell  you  all  about  the  Games.  They  took  place 
in  a  park  near  here  Friday  and  there  was  seventeen  beautiful 
dances.  They  danced  to  give  you  spassums.  One  of  them 
was  a  Noble  youth.  He  was  a  Prince  in  his  own  write,  under 
Spells  for  sevn  years.  When  he  danced,  lo  and  behold  he  was 
the  admiration  of  all  Beholders.  Alas'  poor  youth.  When  I 
say  alas  I  mean  that  it  was  so  sad  being  like  that  full  of  Spells 
in  the  flower  of  his  youth.  He  looked  at  me  so  sad  when  he 
was  dancing,  and  I  was  so  glad.  It  was  just  like  money  from 
home.  Dear  Charles,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  myself.  I  am 
full  of  goodness  most  the  time  for  God  loves  good  people.  But 
sometimes  I  am  not  and  I  have  a  temper  like  two  crost  sticks 
when  I  must  pray  to  be  changed.  The  dancing  gentleman 

118 


BUD 

truly  loves  me  to  distraction.  He  kissed  my  hand  and  hastily 
mountain  his  noble  steed,  galoped  furiously  away.  Ah,  the 
coarse  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth.  Perhaps  he  will 
fall  upon  the  forein  plain.  Dearest  Charles — adorable — I  must 
now  tell  you  that  I  am  being  educated  for  my  proper  station 
in  life.  There  is  Geograpy,  and  penmanship  with  the  right 
commas,  and  Long  Division  and  conjunctives  which  I  abom- 
iate.  But  my  teacher,  a  sweet  lady  named  Miss  Alison  Dyce, 
says  they  are  all  truly  refining.  Oh  I  am  weary,  weary,  he 
cometh  not.  That  is  for  you,  darling  Charles,  my  own. — 
Your  true  heart  love,  KATE  MACNEILL." 

"Is  that  all  right?"  asked  Bud,  anxiously. 

"Yes;  at  least  it  '11  do  fine,"  said  the  maid,  with 
that  Highland  politeness  that  is  often  so  bad  for  busi- 
ness. "There's  not  much  about  himself  in  it,  but  och! 
it  '11  do  fine.  It's  as  nice  a  letter  as  ever  I  saw:  the 
lines  are  all  that  straight." 

"But  there's  blots,"  said  Bud,  regretfully.  "There 
oughtn't  to  be  blots  in  a  real  love-letter." 

"Toots!  just  put  a  cross  beside  each  of  them,  and  write 
'this  is  a  kiss,'"  said  Kate,  who  must  have  had  some 
previous  experience.  "You  forgot  to  ask  him  how's 
his  health,  as  it  leaves  us  at  present." 

So  Bud  completed  the  letter  as  instructed.  "Now 
for  the  envelope,"  said  she. 

"I'll  put  the  address  on  it  myself,"  said  Kate,  con- 
fused. "He  would  be  sure  somebody  else  had  been 
reading  it  if  the  address  was  not  in  my  hand  of  write" 
— an  odd  excuse,  whose  absurdity  escaped  the  child. 
So  the  maid  put  the  letter  in  the  bosom  of  her  Sunday 
fown  against  her  heart,  where  meanwhile  dwelt  the 
only  Charles.  It  is,  I  sometimes  think,  where  we 
should  all  deposit  and  retain  our  love-letters;  for  the 
lad  and  lass,  as  we  must  think  of  them,  have  no  ex- 
istence any  more  than  poor  Kate's  Charles. 

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Two  days  passed.  Often  in  those  two  days  would 
Bud  come,  asking  anxiously  if  there  was  any  answer 
yet  from  Charles.  As  often  the  maid  of  Colonsay 
reddened,  and  said  with  resignation  there  was  not  so 
much  as  the  scrape  of  a  pen.  "He'll  be  on  the  sea," 
she  explained  at  last,  "and  not  near  a  post-office. 
Stop  you  till  he  gets  near  a  post-office,  and  you'll  see 
the  fine  letter  I'll  get." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  a  sailor,"  said  Bud.  "Why, 
I  calculated  he  was  a  Highland  chieftain  or  a  knight, 
or  something  like  that.  If  I  had  known  he  was  a 
sailor  I'd  have  made  that  letter  different.  I'd  have 
loaded  it  up  to  the  nozzle  with  sloppy  weather,  and 
said,  Oh,  how  sad  I  was  —  that's  you,  Kate — >to  lie 
awake  nights  thinking  about  him  out  on  the  heaving 
billow.  Is  he  a  captain?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kate,  promptly.  "A  full  captain  in 
the  summer-time.  In  the  winter  he  just  stays  at 
home  and  helps  on  his  mother's  farm.  Not  a  cheep 
to  your  aunties  about  Charles,  darling  Lennox,"  she 
added,  anxiously.  "They're  —  they're  that  particu- 
lar!" 

"I  don't  think  you're  a  true  love  at  all,"  said  Bud, 
reflecting  on  many  interviews  at  the  kitchen  window 
and  the  back  door.  ' '  Just  think  of  the  way  you  make 
goo-goo  eyes  at  the  letter-carrier  and  the  butcher's 
man  and  the  ash-pit  gentleman.  What  would  Charles 
say?" 

"Toots!  I'm  only  putting  by  the  time  with  them," 
explained  the  maid.  "It's  only  a  diversion.  Wheri 
I  marry  I  will  marry  for  my  own  conveniency,  and 
the  man  for  me  is  Charles." 

"What's  the  name  of  his  ship  ?"  asked  the  child. 

"The  Good  Intent"  said  Kate,  who  had  known  a 
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skiff  of  the  name  in  Colonsay.  "A  beautiful  ship,  with 
two  yellow  chimneys,  and  flags  to  the  masthead." 

"That's  fine  and  fancy!"  said  Bud.  "There  was 
a  gentleman  who  loved  me  to  destruction,  coming 
over  on  the  ship  from  New  York,  and  loaded  me  with 
candy.  He  was  not  the  captain,  but  he  had  gold  braid 
everywhere,  and  his  name  was  George  Sibley  Purser. 
He  promised  he  would  marry  me  when  I  made  a  name 
for  myself,  but  I  'spect  Mister  J.  S.  Purser  '11  go  away 
and  forget." 

"That's  just  the  way  with  them  all,"  said  Kate. 

"I  don't  care,  then,"  said  Bud.  "I'm  all  right;  I'm 
not  kicking." 

Next  day  the  breakfast  in  the  house  of  Dyce  was 
badly  served,  for  Kate  was  wild  to  read  a  letter  that 
the  post  had  brought,  and  when  she  opened  it,  you 
may  be  sure  Bud  was  at  her  shoulder.  It  said: 

"DEAREST  KATE, — I  love  you  truly  and  I  am  thinking  of 
you  most  the  time.  Thank  God  we  was  all  safed.  Now  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  the  Wreck.  The  sea  was  mountains 
high,  and  we  had  a  cargo  of  spise  and  perils  from  Java  on  the 
left-hand  side  the  map  as  you  go  to  Australia.  When  the 
Pirite  ship  chased  us  we  went  down  with  all  hands.  But  we 
constrickted  a  raft  and  sailed  on  and  on  till  we  had  to  draw 
lots  who  would  drink  the  blood.  Just  right  there  a  sailor 
cried  'A  sail,  A  sail,'  and  sure  enough  it  was  a  sail.  And  now 
I  will  tell  you  all  about  Naples.  There  is  a  monsterious  moun- 
tain there,  or  cone  which  belches  horrid  flames  and  lavar. 
Once  upon  a  time  it  belched  all  over  a  town  by  the  name  of 
Pompy  and  it  is  there  till  this  very  day.  The  bay  of  naples  is 
the  grandest  in  the  world  it  is  called  the  golden  horn.  Dearest 
Katherine,  I  am  often  on  the  mast  at  night.  It  is  cold  and 
shakey  in  that  place  and  oh  how  the  wind  doth  blow,  but  I 
ring  a  bell  and  say  alls  well  which  makes  the  saloon  people  truly 
glad.  We  had  five  stow-ways.  One  of  them  was  a  sweet  fair- 

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haired  child  from  Liverpool,  he  was  drove  from  home.  But  a 
good  and  beautious  lady,  one  of  the  first  new  england  families  is 
going  to  adopt  him  and  make  him  her  only  air.  How  beautiful 
and  bright  he  stood  as  born  to  rule  the  storm.  I  weary  for 
your  letters  darling  Katherine. — Write  soon  to  your  true  love 
till  death,  CHARLES." 

Kate  struggled  through  this  extraordinary  epistle 
with  astonishment.  "Who  in  the  world  is  it  from?" 
she  asked  Bud. 

"Charles,  stupid,"  said  Bud,  astonished  that  there 
should  be  any  doubt  about  that  point.  Didn't  I — • 
didn't  we  write  him  the  other  night?  It  was  up  to 
him  to  write  back,  wasn't  it?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Kate,  very  conscious  of  that  letter 
still  unposted,  "but — but  he  doesn't  say  Charles  any- 
thing, just  Charles.  It's  a  daft  like  thing  not  to  give 
his  name;  it  might  be  anybody.  There's  my  Charles, 
and  there's  Charles  Maclean  from  Oronsay — what  way 
am  I  to  know  which  of  them  it  is?" 

"It'll  be  either  or  eyether,"  said  Bud.  "Do  you 
know  Charles  Maclean?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  the  maid.  "He's  following 
the  sea,  and  we  were  well  acquaint." 

"Did  he  propose  to  you?"  asked  Bud. 

"Well,  he  did  not  exactly  propose,"  admitted  Kate, 
"but  we  sometimes  went  a  walk  together  to  the  church- 
yard on  a  Sunday,  and  you  know  yourself  what  that 
means  out  in  Colonsay.  I'll  just  keep  the  letter  and 
think  of  it.  It's  the  nicest  letter  I  ever  got,  and  full 
of  information.  It's  Charles  Maclean,  I'll  warrant  you, 
but  he  did  not  use  to  call  me  Katherine — he  just  said 
Kate  and  his  face  would  be  as  red  as  anything.  Fancy 
him  going  down  with  all  hands!  My  heart  is  sore  for 
him,"  and  the  maid  there  and  then  transferred  her 


BUD 

devotion  from  the  misty  lad  of  her  own  imagination  to 
Charles  Maclean  of  Oronsay. 

"You'll  help  me  to  write  him  a  letter  back  to-night," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I'll  love  to,"  said  the  child,  wearily. 
But  by  the  time  the  night  came  on,  and  Wanton 
Wully  rang  his  curfew  bell,  and  the  rooks  came  clang- 
ing home  to  the  tall  trees  of  the  forest,  she  was  beyond 
all  interest  in  life  or  love. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WANTON  WULLY  only  briefly  rang  the  morning 
bell,  and  gingerly,  with  tight-shut  lips  and  deep 
nose  breathings,  as  if  its  loud  alarm  could  so  be  miti- 
gated. Once  before  he  had  done  it  just  as  delicately — 
when  the  Earl  was  dying,  and  the  bell-ringer,  uncertain 
of  his  skill  to  toll,  when  the  time  came,  with  the  right 
half-minute  pauses,  grieved  the  town  and  horrified 
the  castle  by  a  rehearsal  in  the  middle  of  a  winter 
night.  But  no  soul  of  mercy  is  in  brazen  bells  that 
hang  aloof  from  man  in  lofty  steeples,  and  this  one, 
swung  ever  so  gently,  sullenly  boomed  —  boomed  — 
boomed. 

"Oh,  to  the  devil  wi'  ye!"  said  Wanton  Wully, 
sweating  with  vexation.  "Of  all  the  senseless  bells! 
A  big,  boss  bluiter!  I  canna  compel  nor  coax  ye!" 
and  he  gave  the  rope  one  vicious  tug  that  brought  it, 
broken,  round  his  ears,  then  went  from  the  church 
into  the  sunny,  silent,  morning  street,  where  life  and 
the  day  suspended. 

In  faith,  a  senseless  bell,  a  merciless  bell,  waking 
folk  to  toil  and  grief.  Dr.  Brash  and  Ailie,  heavy- 
eyed,  beside  the  bed  in  the  attic  bower,  shivered  at 
the  sound  of  it,  and  looked  with  fear  and  yearning  at 
the  sleeping  child. 

Bud  moved  her  head  from  side  to  side  a  little  on 
the  pillow,  with  a  murmur  from  her  parched  lips,  and 

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there  was  a  flicker  of  the  eyelids — that  was  all.  Be- 
tween her  and  the  everlasting  swound,  where  giddily 
swings  the  world  and  all  its  living  things,  there  seemed 
no  more  than  a  sheet  of  tissue-paper:  it  was  as  if  a 
breath  of  the  tender  morning  air  would  quench  the 
wavering  flame  that  once  was  joy  and  Lennox  Dyce. 
The  heart  of  Auntie  Ailie  rose  clamoring  in  her  bosom; 
her  eyes  stung  with  the  brine  of  tears  restrained,  but 
she  clinched  her  teeth  that  she  might  still  be  worthy  of 
the  doctor's  confidence. 

He  saw  it,  and  put  out  his  hand  and  pressed  her 
shoulder,  a  fat,  old-fashioned  man,  well  up  in  years, 
with  whiskers  under  his  chin  like  a  cravat,  yet  beauti- 
ful as  a  prince  to  Ailie,  for  on  him  all  her  hopes  were 
cast.  "They  call  me  agnostic — atheist  even,  whiles, 
I  hear,"  he  said,  in  the  midst  of  their  vigil;  "and, 
indeed,  I'm  sometimes  beat  to  get  my  mind  beyond 
the  mechanism,  but — h'm! — a  fine  child,  a  noble  child; 
she  was  made  for  something — h'm!  That  mind  and 
talent — h'm! — that  spirit — h'm! — the  base  of  it  was 
surely  never  yon  gray  stuff  in  the  convolutions." 
And  another  time  the  minister  had  come  in  (the  folk 
in  the  street  were  furious  to  see  him  do  it!),  and  timidly 
suggested  prayer.  "Prayer!"  said  Dr.  Brash,  "before 
this  child,  and  her  quite  conscious!  Man,  what  in 
God's  own  name  are  we  doing  here,  this — h'm! — dear, 
good  lady  and  I,  but  fever  ourselves  with  sleepless, 
silent  prayer  ?  Do  you  think  a  proper  prayer  must  be 
official?  There's  not  a  drop  of  stuff  in  a  druggist's 
bottle  but  what's  a  solution  of  hope  and  faith  and — 
h'm! — prayer.  Con-found  it,  sir!" 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  pressed  her  on  the  shoulder, 
and  never  said  a  word.  Oh,  the  doctors!  the  doctors! 
Hale  men  and  hearty,  we  can  see  their  shortcomings 
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and  can  smile  at  them,  but  when  the  night-light  burns 
among  the  phials! 

It  was  the  eighth  day  after  Kate,  with  a  face  of 
clay  and  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  the  dough  still 
on  her  elbows  as  she  had  come  from  the  baking- 
board,  burst  upon  the  doctor  in  his  surgery  with  the 
cry,  "Dr.  Brash,  Dr.  Brash!  ye're  to  haste  ye  and  come 
at  once  to  the  wee  one!"  He  had  gone  as  nearly  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind  as  a  fat  man  may  in  carpet 
slippers,  and  found  a  distracted  family  round  the 
fevered  child. 

"Tut,  tut,  lassie,"  said  he,  chucking  her  lightly  under 
the  chin.  "What  new  prank  is  this,  to  be  pretending 
illness?  Or  if  it's  not  a  let-on,  I'll  be  bound  it's  Mac- 
Glashan's  almond  tablet." 

"It's  these  cursed  crab-apples  in  the  garden;  I'm 
sure  it's  the  crab-apples,  doctor,"  said  Miss  Bell,  look- 
ing ten  years  older  than  her  usual. 

"H'm!  I  think  not,"  said  Dr.  Brash,  more  gravely, 
with  his  finger  on  the  pulse. 

"It's  bound  to  be,"  said  Bell,  piteous  at  having  to 
give  up  her  only  hope.  "Didn't  you  eat  some  yester- 
day, pet,  after  I  told  you  that  you  were  not  for  your 
life  to  touch  them?" 

"No,"  said  Bud,  with  hot  and  heavy  breathing. 

"Then  why  didn't  ye,  why  didn't  ye;  and  then  it 
might  have  been  the  apples?"  said  poor  Miss  Bell. 
"You  shouldn't  have  minded  me;  I'm  aye  so  domi- 
neering." 

"No,  you're  not,"  said  Bud,  wanly  smiling. 

"Indeed  I  am;  the  thing's  acknowledged  and  you 
needn't  deny  it,"  said  her  auntie.  "I'm  desperate 
domineering  to  you." 

"Well,  I'm — I'm  not  kicking,"  said  Bud.  It  was  the 
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last  cheerful  expression  she  gave  utterance  to  for  many 
days. 

Wanton  Wully  was  not  long  the  only  one  that 
morning  in  the  sunny  street.  Women  came  out  un- 
usually early,  as  it  seemed,  to  beat  their  basses;  but  the 
first  thing  that  they  did  was  to  look  at  the  front  of 
Daniel  Dyce's  house  with  a  kind  of  terror  lest  none  of 
the  blinds  should  be  up  and  Mr.  Dyce's  old  kid  glove 
should  be  off  the  knocker.  "Have  you  heard  what 
way  she  is  keeping  to-day?"  they  asked  the  bellman. 

"Not  a  cheep!"  said  he.  "I  saw  Kate  sweepin' 
out -her  door-step,  but  I  couldna  ask  her.  That's  the 
curse  of  my  occupation;  I  wish  to  goodness  they  had 
another  man  for  the  grave- diggin'." 

"You  and  your  graves!"  said  the  women.  "Who 
was  mentioning  them?" 

He  stood  on  the  siver-side  and  looked  at  the  blank 
front  of  Daniel  Dyce's  house  with  a  gloomy  eye.  "A 
perfect  caution!"  he  said,  "that's  what  she  was — a 
perfect  caution !  She  called  me  Mr.  Wanton  and  always 
asked  me  how  was  my  legs." 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  with  your  legs?"  said 
one  of  the  women. 

"Whiles  a  weakness,"  said  Wanton  Wully,  for  he 
was  no  hypocrite.  "Her  uncle  tell't  me  once  it  was 
a  kind  o'  weakness  that  they  keep  on  gantrys  doon  in 
Maggie  White's.  But  she  does  not  understand — the 
wee  one;  quite  the  leddy!  she  thought  it  was  a  kind 
o'  gout.  Me!  I  never  had  the  gout — I  never  had  the 
money  for  it,  more's  the  pity." 

He  went  disconsolate  down  the  street  to  get  his 
brush  and  barrow,  for  he  was,  between  the  morning 
bell  and  breakfast-time,  the  burgh's  cleansing  depart- 
ment. Later — till  the  middle  of  the  day — he  was  the 

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BUD 

harbor -master,  wore  a  red -collared  coat  and  chased 
the  gulls  from  the  roofs  of  the  shipping-boxes  and  the 
boys  from  the  slip-side  where  they  might  fall  in  and 
drown  themselves;  his  afternoons  had  half  a  dozen 
distinct  official  cares,  of  which,  in  that  wholesome  air, 
grave-digging  came  seldomest.  This  morning  he  swept 
assiduously  and  long  before  the  house  of  Daniel  Dyce. 
Workmen  passing  yawning  to  their  tasks  in  wood  and 
garden,  field  and  shed,  looked  at  the  muffled  knocker 
and  put  the  question;  their  wives,  making,  a  little  later, 
a  message  to  the  well,  stopped,  too,  put  down  their 
water-stoups,  and  speculated  on  the  state  of  things 
within.  Smoke  rose  from  more  than  one  chimney  in 
the  Dyces'  house.  "It's  the  parlor  fire,"  said  Wanton 
Wully.  "It  means  breakfast.  Cheery  Dan,  they  say, 
aye  makes  a  hearty  breakfast;  I  like  to  see  the  gift  in 
a  man  mysel',  though  I  never  had  it;  it's  a  good  sign  o' 
him  the  night  before." 

Peter  the  post  came  clamping  by-and-by  along  the 
street  with  his  letters,  calling  loudly  up  the  closes,  less 
willing  than  usual  to  climb  the  long  stairs,  for  he  was 
in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  Dyces'.  Not  the  window  for 
him  this  morning,  nor  had  it  been  so  for  a  week,  since 
Kate  no  longer  hung  on  the  sashes,  having  lost 
all  interest  in  the  outer  world.  He  went  tiptoe 
through  the  flagged  close  to  the  back  door  and  lightly 
tapped. 

"What  way  is  she  this  morning?"  said  he,  in  the 
husky  whisper  that  was  the  best  he  could  control  his 
voice  to,  and  in  his  eagerness  almost  mastered  his 
roving  eye. 

"She's  got  the  turn! — she's  got  the  turn!"  said  the 
maid,  transported.  "Miss  Dyce  was  down  the  now 
and  told  me  that  her  temper  was  reduced." 

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"Lord  help  us!  I  never  knew  she  had  one,"  said 
the  post. 

"It's  no'  temper  that  I  mean,"  said  Kate,  "but  yon 
thing  that  you  measure  wi'  the  weather-glass  the 
doctor's  aye  so  cross  wi'  that  he  shakes  and  shakes 
and  shakes  at  it.  But,  anyway,  she's  better.  I  hope 
Miss  Ailie  will  come  down  for  a  bite;  if  not  she'll 
starve  hersel'." 

"That's  rare!  By  George,  that's  tip-top!"  said  the 
postman,  so  uplifted  that  he  went  off  with  the  M.C. 
step  he  used  at  Masons'  balls,  and  would  have  clean 
forgotten  to  give  Kate  the  letters  if  she  had  not  cried 
him  back. 

Wanton  Wully  sat  on  a  barrow-tram  waiting  the 
postman's  exit.  "What  way  is  she?"  said  he,  and 
Peter's  errant  eye  cocked  to  all  airts  of  the  compass. 
What  he  wanted  was  to  keep  this  titbit  to  himself, 
to  have  the  satisfaction  of  passing  it  along  with  his 
letters.  To  give  it  to  Wanton  Wully  at  this  stage 
would  be  to  throw  away  good-fortune.  It  was  said 
by  Daniel  Dyce  that  the  only  way  to  keep  a  dead 
secret  in  the  burgh  was  to  send  Wully  and  his  hand- 
bell round  the  town  with  it  as  public  crier.  When 
Wanton  Wully  cried,  it  beat  you  to  understand  a 
word  he  said  after  "Notice!"  but  unofficially  he  was 
marvellously  gleg  at  circulating  news.  "What  way  is 
she?"  he  asked  again,  seeing  the  postman's  hesitation. 

"If  ye'll  promise  to  stick  to  the  head  o'  the  toun 
and  let  me  alone  in  the  ither  end,  I'll  tell  ye,"  said 
Peter,  and  it  was  so  agreed. 

But  they  had  not  long  all  the  glory  of  the  good 
tidings  to  themselves.  Dr.  Brash  came  out  of  Dyce's 
house  for  the  first  time  in  two  days,  very  sunken  in 
the  eyes  and  sorely  needing  shaving,  and  it  could  be 

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noticed  by  the  dullest  that  he  had  his  jaunty  walk 
and  a  flower  in  the  lapel  of  his  badly  crushed  coat. 
Ailie  put  it  there  with  trembling  fingers;  she  could 
have  kissed  the  man  besides,  if  there  had  not  been 
the  chance  that  he  might  think  her  only  another  silly 
woman.  Later  Footles  hurled  himself  in  fury  from 
the  doorway,  his  master  close  behind  him.  At  the 
sight  of  Mr.  Dyce  the  street  was  happy;  it  was  the 
first  time  they  had  seen  him  for  a  week.  In  burgh 
towns  that  are  small  enough  we  have  this  compensa- 
tion, that  if  we  have  to  grieve  in  common  over  many 
things,  a  good  man's  personal  joy  exalts  us  all. 

"She's  better,  Mr.  Dyce,  I'm  hearing,"  said  P.  &  A. 
MacGlashan,  wiping  his  hands  on  his  apron  to  prepare 
for  a  fervent  clasp  from  one  who  he  ought  to  have 
known  was  not  of  the  fervent -clasp  ing  kind. 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "-You 
would  know  she  was  pretty  far  through?" 

"Well — we  kind  of  jaloused.  But  we  kent  there 
was  no  danger — the  thing  would  be  ridiculous!"  said 
P.  &  A.  MacGlashan,  and  went  into  his  shop  in  a 
hurry,  much  uplifted,  too,  and  picked  out  a  big  bunch 
of  black  grapes  and  sent  his  boy  with  them,  with  his 
compliments,  to  Miss  Lennox  Dyce,  care  of  Daniel 
Dyce,  Esquire,  Writer. 

Miss  Minto  so  adored  the  man  she  could  not  show 
herself  to  him  in  an  hour  like  that;  for  she  knew  that 
she  must  weep,  and  a  face  begrutten  ill  became  her, 
so  in  she  came  from  the  door  of  her  Emporium  and 
watched  him  pass  the  window.  She  saw  in  him  what 
she  had  never  seen  before — for  in  his  clothing  he  was 
always  trim  and  tidy,  quite  perjink,  as  hereabouts  we 
say — she  saw,  with  the  sharp  eyes  of  a  woman  who 
looks  at  the  man  she  would  like  to  manage,  that  his 

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hat  was  dusty  and  his  boots  not  very  brightly  polished. 
More  than  all  the  news  that  leaked  that  week  from  the 
Dyces'  dwelling  it  realized  for  her  the  state  of  things 
there. 

"Tcht!  tcht!  tcht!"  she  said  to  herself;  "three  of 
them  yonder,  and  he's  quite  neglected!"  She  went 
into  a  back  room,  where  gathered  the  stuff  for  her 
Great  Annual  Jumble  Sales  with  ninepenny  things  at 
sevenpence  ha'penny,  and  searched  a  drawer  that  some- 
times had  revealed  tremendous  joy  to  Lennox  and 
other  bairns  who  were  privileged  to  see  what  they 
called  "Miss  Minto's  back."  In  the  drawer  there 
was  a  doll  called  Grace,  a  large,  robust,  and  inde- 
structible wooden  child  that  had  shared  Miss  Minto's 
youth  and  found  the  years  more  kindly  than  she,  since 
it  got  no  wrinkles  thinking  on  the  cares  of  competition 
in  the  millinery  and  mantua-making  trade,  but  dozed 
its  days  away  upon  feathers  and  silk  and  velvet 
swatches.  Grace  was  dressed  like  a  queen — if  queens 
are  attired  in  gorgeous,  hand-stitched  remnants;  she 
had  so  long  been  part  of  Miss  Minto's  life  that  the 
mantua-maker  swithered  in  her  first  intention.  But 
she  thought  how  happy  Mr.  Dyce  must  be  that  day, 
and  hurriedly  packed  the  doll  in  a  box  and  went  round 
herself  with  it  for  Lennox  Dyce. 

As  she  knocked  lightly  at  the  front  door,  the  old 
kid  glqve  came  loose  in  her  hand — an  omen!  One 
glance  up  and  down  the  street  to  see  that  no  one 
noticed  her,  and  then  she  slipped  it  in  her  pocket,  with 
a  guilty  countenance.  She  was  not  young,  at  least  she 
was  not  in  her  'teens,  but  young  enough  to  do  a  thing 
like  that  for  luck  and  her  liking  of  Daniel  Dyce.  Yet 
her  courage  failed  her,  and  when  Kate  came  to  the 
door  the  first  thing  she  handed  to  her  was  the  glove. 


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"It  fell  off,"  she  said.  "I  hope  it  means  that  it's 
no  longer  needed.  And  this  is  a  little  thing  for  Miss 
Lennox,  Kate;  you  will  give  her  it  with  my  com- 
pliments. I  hear  there's  an  improvement?" 

"You  wouldna  believe  it!"  said  Kate.  "Thank  God 
she'll  soon  be  carrying  on  as  bad  as  ever!" 

Mr.  Dyce  would  not  have  cared  a  rap  that  morning 
if  he  had  come  upon  his  clerks  at  Catch-the-Ten,  or 
even  playing  leap-frog  on  their  desks.  He  was  hum- 
ming a  psalm  you  may  guess  at  as  he  looked  at  the 
documents  heaped  on  his  table — his  calf -bound  books 
and  the  dark,  japanned  deed-boxes  round  his  room. 

"Everything  just  the  same,  and  business  still  going 
on!"  he  said  to  his  clerk.  "Dear  me!  dear  me!  what  a 
desperate  world!  Do  you  know,  I  had  the  notion  that 
everything  was  stopped.  No,  when  I  think  of  it,  I 
oftener  fancied  all  this  was  a  dream." 

"Not  Menzies  vs.  Kilblane,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  clerk, 
with  his  hand  on  a  bulky  Process,  for  he  was  a  cheery 
soul  and  knew  the  mind  of  Daniel  Dyce. 

"I  dare  say  not,"  said  the  lawyer.  "That  plea  will 
last  a  while,  I'm  thinking.  And  all  about  a  five- 
pound  fence!  Let  you  and  me,  Alexander,  thank 
our  stars  there  are  no  sick  bairns  in  the  house  of  either 
Menzies  or  Kilblane,  for  then  they  would  understand 
how  much  their  silly  fence  mattered,  and  pity  be  on 
our  Table-of-Fees!"  He  tossed  over  the  papers  with 
an  impatient  hand.  "Trash!"  said  he.  "What  fright- 
ful trash!  I  can't  be  bothered  with  them — not  to-day. 
They're  no  more  to  me  than  a  docken  leaf.  And  last 
week  they  were  almost  everything.  You'll  have  heard 
the  child  has  got  the  turn?" 

"I  should  think  I  did!"  said  Alexander.  "And  no 
one  better  pleased  to  hear  it!" 

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"Thank  you,  Alick.     How's  the  family?" 

"Fine,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Let  me  think,  now — seven,  isn't  it?  A  big  respon- 
sibility." 

"Not  so  bad  as  long's  we  have  the  health,"  said 
Alexander. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "All  one  wants  in  this 
world  is  the  health — and  a  little  more  money.  I  was 
just  thinking — "  He  stopped  himself,  hummed  a 
bar  of  melody,  and  twinkled  through  his  spectacles. 
"You'll  have  read  Dickens?"  said  he. 

"I  was  familiar  with  his  works  when  I  was  young," 
said  Alexander,  like  a  man  confessing  that  in  youth  he 
played  at  bools.  "They  were  not  bad." 

"Just  so!  Well,  do  you  know  there  was  an  idea 
came  to  my  mind  just  now  that's  too  clearly  the  con- 
sequence of  reading  Dickens  for  a  week  back,  so  I'll 
hold  my  hand  and  keep  my  project  for  another  early 
occasion  when  it  won't  be  Dickens  that's  dictating." 

He  went  early  back  that  day,  to  relieve  Ailie  at 
her  nursing,  as  he  pretended  to  himself,  but  really 
for  his  own  delight  in  looking  at  the  life  in  eyes  where 
yesterday  was  a  cloud.  A  new,  fresh,  .wholesome  air 
seemed  to  fill  the  house.  Bud  lay  on  high  pillows, 
with  Miss  Minto's  Grace  propped  against  her  knees, 
and  the  garret  was  full  of  the  odor  of  flowers  that  had 
come  in  a  glorious  bunch  from  the  banker's  garden. 
Bell  had  grown  miraculously  young  again,  and  from 
between  Ailie 's  eyebrows  had  disappeared  the  two  black 
lines  that  had  come  there  when  Dr.  Brash  had  dropped 
in  her  ear  the  dreadful  word  pneumonia.  But  Dr. 
Brash  had  beaten  it!  Oh,  if  she  only  knew  the  way 
to  knit  a  winter  waistcoat  for  him! 

The  child  put  out  her  hand  to  her  uncle,  and  he 


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kissed  her  on  the  palm,  frightful  even  yet  of  putting  a 
lip  to  her  cheek,  lest  he  should  experience  again  the 
terror  of  the  hot  breath  from  that  consuming  inward 
fire. 

"Well,"  said  he,  briskly,  "how's  our  health,  your 
ladyship?  Losh  bless  me!  What  a  fine,  big,  sonsy 
baby  you  have  gotten  here;  poor  Alibel's  nose  will  be 
out  of  joint,  I'm  thinking." 

"Hasn't  got  any,"  said  Bud,  still  weakly,  in  her 
new,  thin,  and  unpractised  voice,  as  she  turned  with  a 
look  that  showed  no  lessening  affection  for  the  old 
doll,  badly  battered  in  the  visage  and  wanting  in  the 
limbs,  which  lay  beside  her  on  the  pillow. 

"Blythmeat  and  breadberry,"  said  Daniel  Dyce. 
"In  the  house  of  Daniel  Dyce!  Bell  and  Ailie,  here's 
an  example  for  you!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOLLOWING  on  stormy  weeks  had  come  an  Indian 
summer,  when  the  world  was  blessed  with  Ailie's 
idea  of  Arden  weather,  that  keeps  one  wood  forever 
green  and  glad  with  company,  knows  only  the  rumor 
of  distant  ice  and  rain,  and  makes  men,  reading  thereof 
by  winter  fires,  smell  fir  and  feel  the  breeze  on  their 
naked  necks  and  .hunger  for  the  old,  abandoned  bed 
among  the  brackens.  "It  is  better  to  hear  the  lark 
sing  than  the  mouse  squeak,"  was  the  motto  of  Daniel 
Dyce,  and  though  the  larks  were  absent,  he  would 
have  the  little  one  in  the  garden  long  hours  of  the 
day.  She  basked  there  like  a  kitten  in  the  sunlight  till 
her  wan  cheek  bloomed.  The  robin  sang  among  the 
apples — pensive  a  bit  for  the  ear  of  age  that  knows 
the  difference  between  the  voice  of  spring  and  autumn 
— sweet  enough  for  youth  that  happily  does  not  have 
an  ear  for  its  gallant  melancholy;  the  starlings  blew 
like  a  dust  about  the  sky;  over  the  garden  wall — the 
only  one  in  the  town  that  wanted  broken  bottles — 
far-off  hills  raised  up  their  heads  to  keek  at  the  little 
lassie,  who  saw  from  this  that  the  world  was  big  and 
glorious  as  ever. 

"My!  ain't  this  fine  and  clean?"  said  Bud.  "Feels 
as  if  Aunt  Bell  had  been  up  this  morning  bright  and 
early  with  a  duster."  She  was  enraptured  with  the 
blaze  of  the  nasturtiums,  that  Bell  would  aye  declare 


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should  be  the  flower  of  Scotland,  for  "Indian  cress  here, 
or  Indian  cress  there,"  as  she  would  say  "they're  more 
like  Scots  than  any  flower  I  ken.  The  poorer  the  soil 
the  better  they  thrive,  and  they  come  to  gold  where  all 
your  fancy  flowers  would  rot  for  the  want  of  nutri- 
ment. Nutriment!  Give  them  that  in  plenty  and 
you'll  see  a  bonny  display  of  green  and  no'  much 
blossom.  The  thing's  a  parable — the  worst  you  can 
do  with  a  Scotsman,  if  you  want  the  best  from  him, 
's  to  feed  him  ower  rich.  Look  at  Captain  Conse- 
quence, never  the  same  since  he  was  abroad — mulliga- 
tawny even-on  in  India;  a  score  of  servant-men,  and 
never  a  hand's  turn  for  himself — all  the  blossom  from 
that  kind  of  Indian  cress  is  on  his  nose." 

"Land's  sake!  I  am  glad  I'm  not  dead,"  said  Bud, 
with  all  her  body  tingling  as  she  heard  the  bees  buzz 
in  the  nasturtium  bells  and  watched  the  droll  dog 
Footles  snap  at  the  butterflies. 

"It's  not  a  bad  world,  one  way  and  the  other," 
said  Miss  Bell,  knitting  at  her  side;  "it  would  have 
been  a  hantle  worse  if  we  had  the  making  o't.  But 
here  we  have  no  continuing  city,  and  yonder — if  the 
Lord  had  willed — you  would  have  gone  sweeping 
through  the  gates  of  the  new  Jerusalem." 

"Sweeping!"  said  the  child.  "I  can't  sweep  for 
keeps;  Kate  won't  give  me  a  chance  to  learn.  But, 
anyhow,  I  guess  this  is  a  good  enough  world  for  a 
miserable  sinner  like  me." 

Mr.  Dyce,  who  had  carried  her,  chair  and  all,  into 
the  garden,  though  she  could  have  walked  there, 
chuckled  at  this  confession. 

"Dan,"  said  Bell,  "think  shame  of  yourself!  you 
make  the  child  light-minded." 

"The  last  thing  I  would  look  for  in  women  is  con- 
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sistency,"  said  he,  "and  I  dare  say  that's  the  way 
I  like  them.  What  is  it  Ailie  quotes  from  Emerson? 

'A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds,' 

— that  kind  of  goblin  never  scared  a  woman  in  the  dark 
yet.  But  surely  you'll  let  me  laugh  when  I  think  of  you 
chiding  her  gladness  in  life  to-day,  when  I  mind  of  you 
last  week  so  desperate  throng  among  the  poultices." 

"I'm  for  none  of  your  lawyer  arguments,"  said  Bell, 
trying  in  vain  to  gag  herself  with  a  knitting-pin  from 
one  of  the  Shetland  shawls  she  had  been  turning  out  for 
years  with  the  hope  that  some  day  she  could  keep  one 
for  herself.  "It  might  have  been  that ' she  pleased  God 
and  was  beloved  of  Him,  so  that,  living  among  sinners ' — 
among  sinners,  Dan — 'she  was  translated.  Yea,  speed- 
ily was  she  taken  away,  lest  that  wickedness  should 
alter  her  understanding,  or  deceit  beguile  her  soul.'" 

"I  declare  if  I  haven't  forgot  my  peppermints!" 
said  her  brother,  quizzing  her,  and  clapping  his  out- 
side pockets.  "A  consoling  text!  I  have  no  doubt 
at  all  you  could  enlarge  upon  it  most  acceptably, 
but  confess  that  you  are  just  as  glad  as  me  that  there's 
the  like  of  Dr.  Brash." 

"I  like  the  doc,"  the  child  broke  in,  with  most  of 
this  dispute  beyond  her;  "he's  a  real  cuddley  man. 
Every  time  he  rapped  at  my  chest  I  wanted  to  cry 
'Come  in.'  Say,  isn't  he  slick  with  a  poultice!" 

"He  was  slick  enough  to  save  your  life,  my  dear," 
said  Uncle  Dan,  soberly.  "I'm  almost  jealous  of  him 
now,  for  Bud's  more  his  than  mine." 

"Did  he  make  me  better?"  asked  the  child. 

"Under  God.  I'm  thinking  we  would  have  been 
in  a  bonny  habble  wanting  him," 

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BUD 

"I  don't  know  what  a  bonny  babble  is  from  Adam," 
said  Bud,  "but  I  bet  the  doc  wasn't  everything — there 
was  that  prayer,  you  know." 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  her  uncle,  sharply. 

"Oh,  I  heard  you,  Uncle  Dan,"  said  Bud,  with  a 
sly  look  up  at  him.  "I  wasn't  sleeping  really  that 
night,  and  I  was  awful  liable  to  have  tickled  you  on 
the  bald  bit  of  your  head.  I  never  saw  it  before.  I 
could  have  done  it  easily  if  it  wasn't  that  I  was  so 
tired;  and  my  breath  was  so  sticky  that  I  had  to  keep 
on  yanking  it,  just;  and  you  were  so  solemn  and  used 
such  dre'ffle  big  words.  I  didn't  tickle  you,  but  I 
thought  I'd  help  you  pray,  and  so  I  kept  my  eyes  shut 
and  said  a  bit  myself.  Say,  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing"— she  stammered,  with  a  shaking  lip — "I  felt 
real  mean  when  you  talked  about  a  sinless  child;  of 
course  you  didn't  know,  but  it  was — it  wasn't  true. 
I  know  why  I  was  taken  ill :  it  was  a  punishment  for 
telling  fibs  to  Kate.  I  was  mighty  frightened  that  I'd 
die  before  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  you." 

"Fibs!"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  seriously.  "That's  bad. 
And  I'm  loath  to  think  it  of  you,  for  it's  the  only  sin 
that  does  not  run  in  the  family,  and  the  one  I  most 
abominate." 

Bell  stopped  her  knitting,  quite  distressed,  and  the 
child  lost  her  new-come  bloom.  "I  didn't  mean  it 
for  fibs,"  she  said,  "and  it  wasn't  anything  I  said,  but 
a  thing  I  did  when  I  was  being  Winifred  Wallace. 
Kate  wanted  me  to  write  a  letter — " 

"Who  to?"  demanded  Auntie  Bell. 

"It  was  to — it  was  to — oh,  I  daren't  tell  you,"  said 
Bud,  distressed.  "It  wouldn't  be  fair,  and  maybe 
she'll  tell  you  herself,  if  you  ask  her.  Anyhow,  I  wrote 
the  letter  for  her,  and  seeing  she  wasn't  getting  any 


BUD 

answer  to  it,  and  was  just  looney  for  one,  and  I  was 
mighty  keen  myself,  I  turned  Winny  on,  and  wrote  one. 
I  went  out  and  posted  it  that  dre'ffle  wet  night  you 
had  the  party,  and  I  never  let  on  to  Kate,  so  she  took  it 
for  a  really  really  letter  from  the  person  we  sent  the 
other  one  to.  I  got  soaked  going  to  the  post-office, 
and  that's  where  I  guess  God  began  to  play  His  hand. 
Jim  said  the  Almighty  held  a  royal  flush  every  blessed 
time;  but  that's  card  talk;  I  don't  know  what  it  means, 
'cept  that  Jim  said  it  when  the  '  Span  of  Life '  manager 
skipped  with  the  boodle — lit  out  with  the  cash,  I  mean — 
and  the  company  had  to  walk  home  from  Kalamazoo 
on  the  railroad  ties." 

"Mercy  on  us!  I  never  heard  a  word  of  it,"  cried 
Miss  Bell.  "This  '11  be  a  warning!  People  that  have 
bairns  to  manage  shouldn't  be  giving  parties;  it  was 
the  only  night  since  ever  you  came  here  that  we  never 
put  you  to  your  bed.  Did  Kate  not  change  your 
clothes  when  you  came  in  wet  ?" 

"She  didn't  know  I  was  out,  for  that  would  have 
spoiled  everything,  'cause  she'd  have  asked  me  what 
I  was  doing  out,  and  I'd  have  had  to  tell  her,  for 
I  can't  fib  that  kind  of  fib.  When  I  came  in  all  soak- 
ing, I  took  a  teeny-weeny  loan  of  uncle's  tartan  rug, 
and  played  to  Kate  I  was  Helen  Macgregor,  and  Kate 
went  into  spasms,  and  didn't  notice  anything  till 
my  clothes  were  dry.  Was  it  very  very  naughty  of 
me?" 

"It  was,  indeed!  It  was  worse  than  naughty,  it 
was  silly,"  said  her  uncle  Dan,  remembering  all  the 
prank  had  cost  them. 

"Oh,  Lennox,  my  poor,  sinful  bairn!"  said  her  aunt, 
most  melancholy. 

"I  didn't  mean  the  least  harm,"  protested  the  child, 


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trembling  on  the  verge  of  tears.  "I  did  it  all  to  make 
Kate  feel  kind  of  gay,  for  I  hate  to  see  a  body  mope 
— and  I  wanted  a  little  fun  myself,"  she  added,  hastily, 
determined  to  confess  all. 

"I'll  Kate  her,  the  wretch!"  cried  Auntie  Bell,  quite 
furious,  gathering  up  her  knitting. 

"Why,  Auntie  Bell,  it  wasn't  her  fault,  it  was — " 
But  before  she  could  say  more  Miss  Bell  was  flying 
to  the  house  for  an  explanation,  Footles  barking  at 
her  heels  astonished,  for  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
seen  her  trot  with  a  ball  of  wool  trailing  behind  her. 
The  maid  had  the  kitchen  window  open  to  the  last 
inch,  and  looked  out  on  a  street  deserted  but  for  a  ring 
of  bairns  that  played  before  the  baker's  door.  Their 
voices,  clear  and  sweet,  and  laden  with  no  sense  of  care 
or  apprehension,  filled  the  afternoon  with  melody — 

"  '  Water,  water  wall-flowers, 

Growing  up  so  high, 
We  are  all  maidens 

And  we  must  all  die.'" 

To  the  maid  of  Colonsay  in  an  autumn  mood  the 
rhyme  conveyed  some  pensive  sentiment  that  was 
pleasant  though  it  almost  made  her  cry:  the  air  slipped 
to  her  heart,  the  words  in  some  way  found  the  Gaelic 
chord  that  shakes  in  sympathy  with  minor  keys,  for 
beautiful  is  all  the  world,  our  day  of  it  so  brief!  Even 
Miss  Bell  was  calmed  by  the  children's  song  as  it  came 
from  the  sunny  street  into  the  low-ceiled,  shady  kitchen. 
She  had  played  that  game  herself,  sung  these  words 
long  ago,  never  thinking  of  their  meaning — how  pitiful 
it  was  that  words  and  a  tune  should  so  endure,  un- 
changing, and  all  else  alter! 

"Kate,  Kate,  you  foolish  lass!"  she  cried,  and  the 
140 


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maid  drew  in  with  the  old  astonishment  and  remorse, 
as  if  it  was  her  first  delinquency. 

"I — I  was  looking  for  the  post,"  said  she. 

"Not  for  the  first  time,  it  seems,"  said  her  mistress. 
"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it  was  some  business  of  yours  that 
sent  Miss  Lennox  to  the  post-office  on  a  wet  night 
that  was  the  whole  cause  of  our  tribulation.  At  least 
you  might  have  seen  the  wean  was  dried  when  she 
came  back." 

"I'm  sure  and  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,  m'em,"  said  the  maid,  astounded. 

"You  got  a  letter  the  day  the  bairn  took  ill;  what 
was  it  about?" 

The  girl  burst  into  tears  and  covered  her  head  with 
her  apron.  "Oh,  Miss  Dyce,  Miss  Dyce!"  she  cried, 
"you're  that  particular,  and  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you. 
It  was  only  just  diversion." 

"Indeed,  and  you  must  tell  me,"  said  her  mistress, 
now  determined.  -"There's  some  mystery  here  that 
must  be  cleared,  as  I'm  a  living  woman.  Show  me 
that  letter  this  instant!" 

"I  can't,  Miss  Dyce,  I  can't;  I'm  quite  affronted. 
You  don't  ken  who  it's  from." 

"I  ken  better  than  yourself;  it's  from  nobody  but 
Lennox,"  said  Miss  Bell. 

"My  stars!"  cried  the  maid,  astonished.  "Do  you 
tell  me  that?  Amn't  I  the  stupid  one?  I  thought  it 
was  from  Charles.  Oh,  m'em,  what  will  Charles 
Maclean  of  Oronsay  think  of  me?  He'll  think  I  was 
demented,"  and  turning  to  her  servant's  chest  she 
threw  it  open  and  produced  the  second  sham  epistle. 

Miss  Bell  went  in  with  it  to  Ailie  in  the  parlor,  and 
they  read  it  together.  Ailie  laughed  till  the  tears 
came  at  the  story  it  revealed.  "It's  more  creditable 
xo  141 


BUD 

to  her  imagination  than  to  my  teaching  in  grammar 
and  spelling,"  was  her  only  criticism.  "The — the  little 
rogue!" 

"And  is  that  the  way  you  look  at  it?"  asked  Bell, 
disgusted.  "A  pack  of  lies  from  end  to  end.  She 
should  be  punished  for  it;  at  least  she  should  be 
warned  that  it  was  very  wicked." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  Miss  Ailie.  "I  think 
she  has  been  punished  enough  already,  if  punishment 
was  in  it.  Just  fancy  if  the  Lord  could  make  so  much 
ado  about  a  little  thing  like  that!  It's  not  a  pack  of 
lies  at  all,  Bell;  it's  literature,  it's  romance." 

"Well,  romancing!"  said  Miss  Bell.  "What's  ro- 
mancing if  you  leave  out  Walter  Scott?  I  am  glad 
she  has  a  conviction  of  the  sin  of  it  herself.  If  she 
had  slipped  away  from  us  on  Wednesday  this  letter 
would  have  been  upon  her  soul.  It's  vexing  her  now." 

"If  that  is  so,  it's  time  her  mind  was  relieved," 
said  Ailie,  and,  rising,  sped  to  the  garden  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand.  Her  heart  bled  to  see  the  appre- 
hension on  Bud's  face,  and  beside  her  Dan  stroking 
her  hair  and  altogether  bewildered. 

"Bud,"  cried  Ailie,  kissing  her,  "do  you  think  you 
could  invent  a  lover  for  me  who  would  write  me  letters 
half  so  interesting  as  this?  It's  a  lover  like  that  I 
have  all  the  time  been  waiting  for:  the  ordinary  kind, 
by  all  my  reading,  must  be  very  dull  in  their  correspond- 
ence, and  the  lives  they  lead  deplorably  humdrum — 

"'Oh,  Charlie  is  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  darling; 
Oh,  Charlie  is  my  darling,  the  young  marineer.' 

After  this  I'll  encourage  only  sailors.  Bud,  dear,  get 
me  a  nice,  clean  sailor.  But  I  stipulate  that  he  must 

142 


BUD 

be  more  discriminating  with  his  capitals,  and  know 
that  the  verb  must  agree  with  its  nominative,  and  not 
be  quite  so  much  confused  in  his  geography." 

"You're  not  angry  with  me,  aunt?"  said  Bud,  in 
a  tone  of  great  relief,  with  the  bloom  coming  back. 
"Was  it  very,  very  wicked?" 

"Pooh!"  said  Ailie.  "If  that's  wicked,  where's  our 
Mr.  Shakespeare?  Oh,  child!  child!  you  are  my  own 
heart's  treasure.  I  thought  a  girl  called  Alison  I  used 
to  know  long  ago  was  long  since  dead  and  done  with, 
and  here  she's  to  the  fore  yet,  daft  as  ever,  and  her 
name  is  Lennox  Dyce." 

"No,  it  wasn't  Lennox  wrote  that  letter,"  said  Bud; 
"it  was  Winifred  Wallace,  and  oh,  my!  she's  a  pretty 
tough  proposition.  You're  quite,  quite  sure  it  wasn't 
fibbing." 

"No  more  than  Cinderella's  fibbing,"  said  her  aunt, 
and  flourished  the  letter  in  the  face  of  Dan,  who  she 
saw  was  going  to  enter  some  dissent.  "Behold,  Dan 
Dyce,  the  artist  b-r-r-rain!  Calls  sailor  sweethearts 
from  the  vasty  deep,  and  they  come  obedient  to  her 
bidding.  Spise  and  perils,  Dan,  and  the  golden  horn 
a  trifle  out  of  its  latitude,  and  the  darling  boy  that's 
always  being  drove  from  home.  One  thing  you  over- 
looked in  the  boy,  Bud — the  hectic  flush.  I'm  sure 
Kate  would  have  liked  a  touch  of  the  hectic  flush  in 
him." 

But  Bud  was  still  contrite,  thinking  of  the  servant. 
"She  was  so  set  upon  a  letter  from  her  Charles,"  she 
explained,  "and  now  she'll  have  to  know  that  I  was 
joshing  her.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  say  joshing,  Auntie 
Ailie — I  s'pose  it's  slang." 

"It  is,"  said  her  aunt,  "and  most  unlady-like;  let 
us  call  it  pulling  her  le — let  us  call  it — oh,  the  English 

143 


BUD 

language!  I'll  explain  it  all  to  Kate,  and  that  will  be 
the  end  of  it." 

"Kate  'd  be  dre'ffle  rattled  to  talk  about  love  to 
a  grown-up  lady,"  said  Bud,  on  thinking.  "I'd  best 
go  in  and  explain  it  all  myself." 

"Very  well,"  said  Auntie  Ailie;  so  Bud  went  into 
the  house  and  through  the  lobby  to  the  kitchen. 

"I've  come  to  beg  your  pardon,  Kate,"  said  she, 
hurriedly.  "I'm  sorry  I — I — pulled  your  leg  about 
that  letter  you  thought  was  from  Charles." 

"Toots!  Ye  needn't  bother  about  my  leg  or  the 
letter,  either,"  said  Kate,  most  cheerfully,  with  another 
letter  open  in  her  hand,  and  Mr.  Dyce's  evening  mail 
piled  on  the  table  before  her;  "letters  are  like  herring 
now,  they're  comin'  in  in  shoals.  I  might  have  kent 
yon  one  never  came  from  Oronsay,  for  it  hadn't  the 
smell  of  peats.  I  have  a  real  one  now  that's  new 
come  in  from  Charles,  and  it's  just  a  beauty!  He 
got  his  leg  broken  on  the  boats  a  month  ago,  and 
Dr.  Macphee's  attending  him.  Oh,  I'm  that  glad  to 
think  that  Charles's  leg  is  in  the  hands  of  a  kent 
face!" 

"Why,  that's  funny,"  said  Bud.  "And  we  were 
just  going  to  write — oh, you  mean  the  other  Charles?" 

"I  mean  Charles  Maclean,"  said  Kate,  with  some 
confusion.  "I — I — was  only  lettin'-on  about  the  other 
Charles;  he  was  only  a  diversion." 

"But  you  sent  him  a  letter?"  cried  Bud. 

"Not  me!"  said  Kate,  composedly.  "I  kept  it, 
and  I  sent  it  on  to  Charles  out  in  Oronsay  when  you 
were  poorly;  it  did  fine!  He  says  he's  glad  to  hear 
about  my  education  and  doesn't  think  much  of  gentle- 
men that  dances,  but  that  he's  always  glad  to  get  the 
scrape  of  a  pen  from  me,  because — because — well,  just 

144 


BUD 

because  he  loves  me  still  the  same,  yours  respectfully, 
Charles  Maclean.  And  oh,  my  stars,  look  at  what  a 
lot  of  crosses!" 

Bud  scrutinized  them  with  amazement.     "Well,  he's 
a  pansy!"  said  she. 


CHAPTER  XV 

OUDDENLY  all  the  town  began  to  talk  of  the  pride 
^  of  Kate  MacNeill.  She  took  to  wearing  all  her 
best  on  week-days,  abandoned  the  kitchen  window, 
and  ruined  an  old-established  trade  in  pay -night 
sweeties  that  used  to  shower  on  her  in  threepenny 
packets  at  the  start  of  every  autumn  when  the  days 
grew  short.  No  longer  blate  young  lads  scraped  with 
their  feet  uneasily  in  the  sawdust  of  P.  &  A.  Mac- 
Glashan's,  swithering  between  the  genteel  attractions 
of  Turkish  Delight  and  the  eloquence  of  conversation 
lozenges  that  saved  a  lot  of  thinking  and  made  the 
blatest  equal  with  the  boldest  when  it  came  to  tender 
badinage  below  the  lamp  at  the  back-door  close  with 
Dyce's  maid.  Talk  about  the  repartee  of  salons! 
wit  moves  deliberately  there  compared  with  the  swift 
giff-gaff  that  Kate  and  her  lads  were  used  to  main- 
tain with  sentiments  doubly  sweet  and  ready-made  at 
threepence  the  quarter  pound.  So  fast  the  sweeties 
passed,  like  the  thrust  and  riposte  of  rapiers,  that  their 
final  purpose  was  forgotten;  they  were  sweeties  no 
longer  to  be  eaten,  but  scented  billets-doux,  laconic 
of  course,  but  otherwise  just  as  satisfactory  as  those 
that  high-born  maidens  get  only  one  at  a  time  and 
at  long  intervals  when  their  papas  are  out  at  busi- 
ness. 

146 


BUD 

'Are  you  engaged?" 

'Just  keep  spierin'." 

'Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder." 

'You  are  a  gay  deceiver." 

'My  heart  is  yours." 

'How  are  your  poor  feet?" 

By  the  hour  could  Kate  sustain  such  sparkling 
flirtations,  or  at  least  till  a  "Kiss  me,  dearest"  turned 
up  from  the  bottom  of  the  poke,  and  then  she  slapped 
his  face  for  him.  It  is  the  only  answer  out  in  Colonsay 
unless  he's  your  intended. 

But  it  stopped  all  at  once.  P.  &  A.  was  beat  to 
understand  what  way  his  pay-night  drawings  fell, 
until  he  saw  that  all  the  lads  were  taking  the  other 
side  of  the  street.  "That's  her  off,  anyway!"  said 
he  to  Mrs.  P.  &  A.,  with  a  gloomy  visage.  "I  wonder 
who's  the  lucky  man?  It's  maybe  Peter — she'll  no' 
get  mony  lozengers  from  him." 

And  it  was  not  only  the  decline  in  votive  offerings 
that  showed  the  vital  change:  she  was  not  at  the 
Masons'  ball,  which  shows  how  wrong  was  the  thought 
of  P.  &  A.,  for  Peter  was  there  with  another  lady. 
Very  cheery,  too,  exceedingly  cheery,  ah,  desperately 
gay,  but  quite  beyond  the  comprehension  of  his  part- 
ner, Jenny  Shand,  who  was  unable  to  fathom  why  a 
spirit  so  merry  in  the  hall  should  turn  to  groans  and 
bitterness  when,  feeling  a  faintish  turn,  she  got  him  in 
behind  the  draught-screen  on  the  landing  of  the  stair  to 
sit  the  "Flowers  o'  Edinburgh."  He  was  fidging  fain 
to  tell  her  plainly  what  he  thought  of  all  her  sex,  but 
strove  like  a  perfect  gentleman  against  the  inclination, 
and  only  said,  "Ha!  ha!  do  you  say  so,  noo?"  and 
"Weemen!"  with  a  voice  that  made  them  all  out 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  vipers.  Poor  Jenny  Shand! 

M7 


BUD 

bonny  Jenny  Shand!  what  a  shame  she  should  be 
bothered  with  so  ill-faured  a  fellow!  When  she  was 
picking  bits  of  nothing  off  his  coat  lapel,  as  if  he  was 
her  married  man,  and  then  coming  to  herself  with  a 
pretty  start  and  begging  pardon  for  her  liberty,  the 
diffy  paid  no  heed;  his  mind  was  down  the  town,  and 
he  was  seeing  himself  yesterday  morning  at  the  first 
delivery  getting  the  window  of  Dyce's  kitchen  banged 
in  his  face  when  he  started  to  talk  about  soap,  meaning 
to  work  the  topic  round  to  hands  and  gloves.  He 
had  got  the  length  of  dirty  hands,  and  asked  the  size 
of  hers,  when  bang!  the  window  went,  and  the  Hielan' 
one  in  among  her  pots  and  pans. 

It  was  not  any  wonder,  for  other  lads  as  deliberate 
and  gawky  as  himself  had  bothered  her  all  the  week 
with  the  same  demand.  Hands!  hands!  you  would 
think,  said  she,  they  were  all  at  the  door  wi'  a  bunch 
of  finger  -  rings  bound  to  marry  her  right  or  wrong, 
even  if  they  had  to  put  them  on  her  nose.  Of  course 
she  knew  finely  what  they  were  after — she  knew  that 
each  blate  wooer  wanted  a  partner  for  the  ball,  and 
could  only  clinch  the  compact  with  a  pair  of  gloves; 
but  just  at  present  she  was  not  in  trim  for  balls,  and 
landsmen  had  no  interest  for  her  since  her  heart  was 
on  the  brine.  Some  of  them  boldly  guessed  at  seven- 
and-a-halfs  without  inquiry,  and  were  dumfoundered 
that  she  would  not  look  at  them ;  and  one  had  acquired 
a  pair  of  roomy  white  cotton  ones  with  elastic  round 
the  top — a  kind  of  glove  that  plays  a  solemn  part  at 
burials,  having  come  upon  Miss  Minto  when  her  stock 
of  festive  kids  was  done.  They  waylaid  Kate  coming 
with  her  basket  from  the  mangle — no,  thanky,  she  was 
needing  no  assistance;  or  she  would  find  them  scratch- 
ing at  the  window  after  dark;  or  hear  them  whistling, 

148 


BUD 

whistling,  whistling  —  oh,  so  softly!  —  in  the  close. 
There  are  women  rich  and  nobly  born  who  think  that 
they  are  fortunate,  and  yet,  poor  dears!  they  never 
heard  the  whistling  in  the  close.  Kate's  case  was 
terrible!  By  day,  in  her  walks  abroad  in  her  new 
merino,  not  standing  so  much  as  a  wink,  or  paying  any 
heed  to  a  "Hey,  Kate,  what's  your  hurry?"  she  would 
blast  them  with  a  flashing  eye.  By  night,  hearing 
their  signals,  she  showed  them  what  she  thought  of  them 
by  putting  to  the  shutters.  "Dir-r-rt!"  was  what 
she  called  them,  with  her  nose  held  high  and  every 
"r"  a  rattle  on  the  lug  for  them — this  to  Bud,  who 
could  not  understand  the  new  distaste  Kate  had  to  the 
other  sex.  "Just  dirt  below  my  feet!  I  think  myself 
far,  far  above  them." 

One  evening  Mr.  Dyce  came  in  from  his  office  and 
quizzed  her  in  the  lobby.  "Kate,"  said  he,  "I'm 
not  complaining,  but  I  wish  you  would  have  mercy 
on  my  back  door.  There's  not  a  night  I  have  come 
home  of  late  but  if  I  look  up  the  close  I  find  a  lad 
or  two  trying  to  bite  his  way  into  you  through  the 
door.  Can  you  no'  go  out,  like  a  good  lass,  and  talk 
at  them  in  the  Gaelic — it  would  serve  them  right!  If 
you  don't,  steps  will  have  to  be  taken  with  a  strong 
hand,  as  you  say  yourself.  What  are  they  wanting? 
Can  this — can  this  be  love?" 

She  ran  to  the  sanctuary  of  the  kitchen,  plumped 
in  a  chair,  and  was  swept  away  in  a  storm  of  laughter 
and  tears  that  frightened  Bud,  who  waited  there  a 
return  of  her  aunts  from  the  Women's  Guild.  "Why, 
Kate,  what's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Your  un — your  un — un — uncle's  blaming  me  for 
harboring  all  them  chaps  about  the  door,  and  says 
it's  1-1-love — oh,  dear!  I'm  black  affronted." 

149 


BUD 

"You  needn't  go  into  hysterics  about  a  little  thing 
like  that,"  said  Bud.  "Uncle  Dan's  tickled  to  death 
to  see  so  many  beaux  you  have,  wanting  you  to  that 
ball ;  he  said  last  night  he  had  to  walk  between  so  many 
of  them  waiting  for  you  there  in  front,  it  was  like 
shassaying  up  the  middle  in  the  Haymakers'." 

"It's  not  hysterics,  nor  hersterics,  either,"  said  the 
maid;  "and  oh,  I  wish  I  was  out  of  here  and  back  in 
the  isle  of  Colonsay!" 

Yes,  Colonsay  became  a  great  place  then.  America, 
where  the  prospects  for  domestics  used  to  be  so  fas- 
cinating, had  lost  its  glamour  since  Bud  had  told 
her  the  servants  there  were  as  discontented  as  in 
Scotland,  and  now  her  native  isle  beat  paradise.  She 
would  talk  by  the  hour,  at  a  washing,  of  its  charms, 
of  which  the  greatest  seemed  to  be  the  absence  of  public 
lamps  and  the  way  you  heard  the  wind!  Colonsay 
seemed  to  be  a  place  where  folk  were  always  happy, 
meeting  in  one  another's  houses,  dancing,  singing,  court- 
ing, marrying,  getting  money  every  now  and  then  from 
sons  or  wealthy  cousins  in  Australia.  Bud  wondered 
if  they  never  did  any  work  in  Colonsay.  Yes,  yes, 
indeed!  Kate  could  assure  her,  they  worked  quite 
often  out  in  Colonsay — in  the  winter-time. 

But  one  thing  greatly  troubled  her — she  must  write 
back  at  once  to  the  only  Charles,  who  so  marvellously 
had  come  to  her  through  Bud's  unconscious  offices, 
and  she  knew  she  could  never  sustain  the  standard 
of  hand- write,  spelling,  and  information  Bud  had  es- 
tablished in  her  first  epistle.  Her  position  was  lament- 
able. It  was  all  very  well  to  be  the  haughty  madam 
on  the  street,  and  show  herself  a  wise  like,  modest 
gyurl,  but  what  was  that  without  the  education? 
C.  Maclean  was  a  man  of  education  —  he  got  it  on 


BUD 

the  yats  among  the  gentry,  he  had  travelled  all  the 
world ! 

Kate's  new  airs,  that  caused  such  speculation  in 
the  town,  were — now  let  me  tell  you — all  the  result 
of  a  dash  at  education.  She  wanted  to  be  able  to 
write  a  letter  as  good  as  Bud  in  a  week  or  two,  and 
had  engaged  the  child  to  tutor  her. 

Bud  never  found  a  more  delicious  game  in  all  her 
life,  and  it  hurried  her  convalescence,  for  to  play  it 
properly  she  must  be  Aunt  Ailie,  and  Aunt  Ailie  was 
always  so  strong  and  well. 

"Education,"  said  Bud,  who  had  a  marvellous  mem- 
ory, and  was  now,  you  will  notice,  Ailie  Dyce,  sitting 
on  a  high  chair,  with  the  maid  on  a  stool  before  her — 
"education  is  not  what  a  lot  of  sillies  think  it  is;  it 
isn't  knowing  everything.  Lots  try  for  it  that  way, 
and  if  they  don't  die  young,  just  when  they're  going 
to  win  the  bursary,  they  grow  up  horrid  bores  that 
nobody  asks  to  picnics.  You  can't  know  everything, 
not  if  you  sit  up  cramming  till  the  cows  come  home; 
and  if  you  want  to  see  a  brainy  person  jump,  ask  him 
how  his  mother  raised  her  dough.  Miss  Katherine 
MacNeill,  never — NEVER — NEVER  be  ashamed  of  not 
knowing  a  thing,  but  always  be  ashamed  of  not  want- 
ing to  know.  That's  Part  One.  Don't  you  think  you 
should  have  an  exercise-book,  child,  and  take  it  down  ?" 

"Toots!  what's  my  head  for?"  said  the  servant. 

"Uncle  Dan  says  education  is  knowing  what  you 
don't  know,  and  knowing  where  to  find  it  out  without 
the  other  people  knowing;  but  he  says  in  most  places* 
you  can  get  the  name  of  having  it  fine  and  good  by 
talking  loud  and  pushing  all  your  goods  in  front  of 
you  in  a  big  enough  barrow.  And  Auntie  Bell — she 
says  the  fear  of  God  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom,  and 


BUD 

the  rest  of  it  is  what  she  skipped  at  Barbara  Mushet's 
Seminary.  But  I  tell  you,  child  (said  the  echo  of  Ailie 
Dyce),  that  education's  just  another  name  for  love." 

"My  stars!  I  never  knew  that  before,"  cried  the 
servant.  "I'm  awful  glad  about  Charles!" 

"  It  isn't  that  kind  of  love,"  Bud  hurriedly  explained, 
"though  it's  good  enough,  for  that's  too  easy.  You're 
only  on  the  trail  for  education  when  you  love  things  so 
you've  simply  got  to  learn  as  much  as  is  good  for  your 
health  about  them.  Everything's  sweet — oh,  so  sweet! 
— all  the  different  countries,  and  the  different  people, 
when  you  understand,  and  the  woods,  and  the  things 
in  them,  and  all  the  animals — 'cepting  maybe  pud- 
docks,  though  it's  likely  God  made  them,  too,  when  He 
was  kind  of  careless — and  the  stars,  and  the  things  men 
did,  and  women — 'specially  those  that's  dead,  poor 
dears! — and  all  the  books,  'cepting  the  stupid  ones 
Aunt  Ailie  simply  can't  stand,  though  she  never  lets  on 
to  the  ladies  who  like  that  kind." 

"My  Lord!  must  you  love  them  all?"  asked  the 
maid,  astonished. 

"Yes,  you  must,  my  Lord,"  said  Bud.  "You'll 
never  know  the  least  thing  well  in  this  world  unless 
you  love  it.  It's  sometimes  mighty  hard,  I  allow. 
I  hated  the  multiplication  table,  but  now  I  love  it 
— at  least,  I  kind  of  love  it  up  to  seven  times  nine, 
and  then  it's  almost  horrid,  but  not  so  horrid  as  it 
was  before  I  knew  that  I  would  never  have  got  to  this 
place  from  Chicago  unless  a  lot  of  men  had  learned  the 
table  up  as  far  as  twelve  times  twelve." 

"I'm  not  particular  about  the  multiplication  table," 
said  the  maid,  "but  I  want  to  be  truly  refined,  the 
same  as  you  said  in  yon  letter  to  Charles.  I  know 
he'll  be  expecting  it." 


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"H-m-m-m-m!"  said  Bud,  thoughtfully,  "I  s'pose 
I'll  have  to  ask  Auntie  Ailie  about  that,  for  I  declare 
to  goodness  I  don't  know  where  you  get  it,  for  it's 
not  in  any  of  the  books  I've  seen.  She  says  it's  the 
One  Thing  in  a  lady,  and  it  grows  inside  you  some  way, 
like — like — like  your  lungs,  I  guess.  It's  no  use  trying 
to  stick  it  on  outside  with  lessons  on  the  piano  or  the 
mandoline,  and  parlor  talk  about  poetry,  and  speaking 
mim  as  if  you  had  a  clothes-pin  in  your  mouth,  and 
couldn't  say  the  least  wee  thing  funny  without  it  was  a 
bit  you'd  see  in  Life  and  Work.  Refinement,  some 
folk  think,  is  not  laughing  right  out." 

"My  stars!"  said  Kate. 

"And  Auntie  Bell  says  a  lot  think  it's  not  knowing 
any  Scotch  language  and  never  taking  cheese  to  tea." 

"I  think,"  said  Kate,  "we'll  never  mind  refining; 
it's  an  awful  bother." 

"But  every  lady  must  be  refined,"  said  Bud.  "Ailie 
prosists  in  that." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  the  maid;  "I'm  not  particular 
about  being  very  much  of  a  lady — I'll  maybe  never 
have  the  jewelry  for  it  —  but  I  would  like  to  be  a 
sort  of  lady  on  the  Sundays,  when  Charles  is  at  home. 
I'm  not  hurry  in'  you,  my  dear,  but — but  when  do  we 
start  the  writin'?"  and  she  yawned  in  a  way  that  said 
little  for  the  interest  of  Professor  Bud's  opening 
lecture. 

Whereupon  Bud  explained  that  in  a  systematic 
course  of  education  reading  came  first,  and  the  best 
reading  was  Shakespeare,  who  was  truly  ennobling 
to  the  human  mind.  She  brought  in  Auntie  Ailie 's 
Shakespeare  and  sat  upon  the  fender,  and  plunged 
Kate  at  once  into  some  queer  society  at  Elsinore. 
But,  bless  you,  nothing  came  of  it:  Kate  fell  asleep, 


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and  woke  to  find  the  fire  cold  and  the  child  entranced 
with  Hamlet. 

"Oh,  dear!  it's  a  slow  job  getting  your  education," 
she  said,  pitifully,  "and  all  this  time  there's  my  dear 
Charles  waiting  for  a  letter!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ICANNA  be  bothered  with  that  Shakespeare,"  Kate 
cried,  hopelessly,  after  many  days  of  him ; ' '  the  man's 
a  mournin'  thing!  Could  he  not  give  us  something 
cheery,  with  'Come,  all  ye  boys!'  in  it,  the  same  as 
the  trawlers  sing  in  Colonsay?  There  was  far  more 
fun  last  week  in  the  penny  Homer." 

So  Bud  dipped  in  the  bottomless  well  of  knowl- 
edge again  and  scooped  up  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury, 
and  splashed  her  favorite  lyrics  at  the  servant's  feet. 
Kate  could  not  stand  The  Golden  Treasury  either;  the 
songs  were  nearly  all  so  lamentable  they  would  make 
a  body  greet.  Bud  assured  her  on  the  best  authority 
that  the  sweetest  songs  were  those  that  told  of  saddest 
thought,  but  Kate  said  that  might  be  right  enough  for 
gentry  who  had  no  real  troubles  of  their  own,  but  they 
weren't  the  thing  at  all  for  working  folk.  What  work- 
ing folk  required  were  songs  with  tunes  to  them,  and 
choruses  that  you  could  tramp  time  to  with  your 
feet.  History,  too,  was  as  little  to  her  taste;  it  was 
all  incredible — the  country  could  never  have  kept  up 
so  many  kings  and  queens.  But  she  liked  geography, 
for  the  map  enabled  her  to  keep  an  eye  on  Charles  as 
he  went  from  port  to  port,  where  letters  in  her  name, 
but  still  the  work  of  Lennox,  would  be  waiting  for  him. 

The  scheme  of  education  was  maintained  so  long 
because  the  town  had  come  upon  its  melancholy  days 


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and  Bud  began  to  feel  depression,  so  that  playing 
teacher  was  her  only  joy.  The  strangers  had  gone 
south  with  the  swallows;  the  steamer  no  longer  called 
each  day  to  make  the  pavement  noisy  in  the  afternoon 
with  the  skliff  of  city  feet,  so  different  from  the  cus- 
tomary tread  of  tackety  boots;  the  coachman's  horn, 
departing,  no  longer  sounded  down  the  valley  like  a 
brassy  challenge  from  the  wide,  wide  world.  Peace 
came  to  the  burgh  like  a  swoon,  and  all  its  days  were 
pensive.  Folk  went  about  their  tasks  reluctant,  the 
very  smoke  of  the  chimneys  loitered  lazily  round  the 
ridges  where  the  starlings  chattered,  and  a  haze  was 
almost  ever  over  the  hills.  When  it  rose,  sometimes, 
Bud,  from  her  attic  window,  could  see  the  road  that 
wound  through  the  distant  glen.  The  road!  —  the 
road! — ah,  that  began  to  have  a  meaning  and  a  kind 
of  cry,  and  wishfully  she  looked  at  it  and  thought 
upon  its  other  end,  where  the  life  she  had  left  and 
read  about  was  loudly  humming  and  marvellous  things 
were  being  done.  Charles  Maclean  of  Oronsay,  second 
mate,  whom  she  loved  unto  destruction,  now  that  he 
was  writing  regularly,  fairly  daft  himself  to  get  such 
charming,  curious  letters  as  he  thought  from  Kate,  had 
been  adjusted  by  the  doctor,  and  was  once  again  on 
the  heaving  main.  It  would  be  Cardiff  or  Fleetwood, 
Hamburg,  Santander,  or  Bilbao,  whose  very  name  is 
like  a  story,  and  his  tarry  pen,  infected  by  the  child's 
example,  induced  to  emulation,  always  bravely  sought 
to  give  some  picture  of  the  varied  world  through  which 
he  wandered.  Of  noisy  ports  did  he  communicate, 
crowded  with  ships;  of  streets  and  lofty  warehouses, 
and  places  where  men  sang,  and  sometimes  of  the 
playhouse,  where  the  villain  was  a  bad  one  and  the 
women  were  so  braw. 

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BUD 

"What  is  braw?"  asked  Bud. 

"It's  fine  clothes,"  said  Kate;  "but  what's  fine 
clothes  if  you  are  not  pure  in  heart  and  have  a  figure  ?" 
and  she  surveyed  with  satisfaction  her  own  plump 
arms. 

But  the  child  guessed  at  a  wider  meaning  for  the 
word  as  Charles  used  it,  and  thought  upon  the  beau- 
teous, clever  women  of  the  plays  that  she  had  seen 
herself  in  far  Chicago,  and  since  her  vicarious  lover 
would  have  thought  them  braw  and  plainly  interesting, 
she  longed  to  emulate  them,  at  least  to  see  them  again. 
And  oh!  to  see  the  places  that  he  wrote  of  and  hear 
the  thundering  wheels  and  jangling  bells!  And  there 
was  also  Auntie  Ailie's  constant  stimulus  to  thoughts 
and  aspirations  that  could  meet  no  satisfaction  in  this 
little  town.  Bell  dwelt  continually  within  the  narrow 
walls  of  her  immediate  duty,  content,  like  many, 
thank  the  Lord!  doing  her  daily  turns  as  best  she  could, 
dreaming  of  nothing  nobler.  Dan  had  ranged  wider 
in  his  time  and  knew  the  world  a  great  deal  better,  and 
had  seen  so  much  of  it  was  illusion,  its  prizes  "will-o'- 
the-wisp,"  that  now  his  wild  geese  were  come  home. 
He  could  see  the  world  in  the  looking-glass  in  which  he 
shaved,  and  there  was  much  to  be  amused  at.  But 
Ailie's  geese  were  still  flying  far  across  the  firmament, 
knowing  no  place  of  rest.  The  child  had  bewitched 
her!  it  was  often  the  distant  view  for  her  now,  the  region 
unattainable;  and  though  apparently  she  had  long 
ago  surrendered  to  her  circumstances,  she  now  would 
sometimes  silently  irk  at  her  prisoning  here,  in  sleep- 
town,  where  we  let  things  slide  until  to-morrow,  while 
the  wild  birds  of  her  inclination  flew  round  the  habit- 
able, wakeful  world.  Unwittingly — no,  not  unwitting- 
ly always — she  charged  the  child  with  curiosity  un- 


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satisfiable,  and  secret  discontent  at  little  things  and 
narrow,  with  longings  for  spacious  arenas  and  ecstatic 
crowded  hours.  To  be  clever,  to  be  brave  and  daring, 
to  venture  and  make  a  glorious  name — how  her  face 
would  glow  and  all  her  flesh  would  quiver  picturing 
lives  she  would  have  liked  to  live  if  only  she  had  had 
the  chance!  How  many  women  are  like  that — silent 
by  the  hearth,  seemingly  placid  and  content  as  they 
darn  and  mend  and  wait  on  the  whim  and  call  of 
dullards ! 

Bell  might  be  content  and  busy  with  small  affairs, 
but  she  had  a  quick,  shrewd  eye  and  saw  the  child's 
unrest.  It  brought  her  real  distress,  for  so  had  the 
roving  spirit  started  in  her  brother  William.  Some- 
times she  softly  scolded  Lennox,  and  even  had  con- 
templated turning  her  into  some  other  room  from  the 
attic  that  had  the  only  window  in  the  house  from 
which  the  high-road  could  be  seen,  but  Ailie  told  her 
that  would  be  to  make  the  road  more  interesting  for 
the  child.  "And  I  don't  know,"  she  added,  "that  it 
should  worry  us  if  she  does  indulge  herself  in  dreams 
about  the  great  big  world  and  its  possibilities.  I  sup- 
pose she'll  have  to  take  the  road  some  day." 

"Take  the  road!"  cried  Bell,  almost  weeping.  "Are 
you  daft,  Ailie  Dyce?  What  need  she  take  the  road 
for?  There's  plenty  to  do  here,  and  I'm  sure  she'll 
never  be  better  off  anywhere  else.  A  lot  of  nonsense! 
I  hope  you  are  not  putting  notions  in  her  head;  we 
had  plenty  of  trouble  with  her  father." 

"It  would  break  my  heart  to  lose  her,  I  assure  you," 
said  Aunt  Ailie,  softly;  "but — "  and  she  ended  with  a 
sigh. 

"I'm  sure  you're  content  enough  yourself?"  said 
Bell;  "and  you're  not  by  any  means  a  diffy." 

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"Indeed  I  am  content,"  admitted  Ailie;  "at  least — 
at  least  I'm  not  complaining.  But  there  is  a  discon- 
tent that's  almost  holy,  a  roving  mood  that's  the  salva- 
tion of  the  race.  There  were,  you  mind,  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers — " 

"I  wish  to  the  Lord  they  had  bided  at  home!" 
cried  Bell.  "There's  never  been  happy  homes  in  this 
Christian  land  since  they  started  emigration."  And 
at  that  Miss  Ailie  smiled  and  Dan  began  to  chuckle. 

"Does  it  not  occur  to  you,  Bell,"  said  he,  "that  but 
for  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  there  would  never  have  been 
Bud?" 

"I  declare  neither  there  would!"  she  said,  smiling. 
"Perhaps  it  was  as  well  they  went, poor  things!  And, 
of  course,  there  must  be  many  an  honest,  decent  body 
in  America." 

"Quite  a  number!"  said  Ailie.  "You  would  not 
expect  this  burgh  to  hold  them  all,  or  even  Scotland. 
America's  glad  to  get  the  overflow." 

"Ah,  you're  trying  to  make  me  laugh,  the  pair  of 
you,  and  forget  my  argument,"  said  Bell;  "but  I'll 
not  be  carried  away  this  time.  I'm  feared  for  the 
bairn,  and  that's  telling  you.  Oh,  Ailie,  mind  what 
her  mother  was — poor  girl!  poor,  dear  girl!  play-acting 
for  her  living,  roving  from  place  to  place,  with  nothing 
you  could  call  a  home ;  laughing  and  greeting  and  post- 
uring before  lights  for  the  diversion  of  the  world — " 

"We  might  do  worse  than  give  the  world  diversion," 
said  Ailie,  soberly. 

"Yes,  yes,  but  with  a  painted  face  and  all  a  vain 
profession — that  is  different,  is  it  not?  I  love  a  jovial 
heart  like  Dan's,  but  to  make  the  body  just  a  kind  of 
fiddle!  It's  only  in  the  body  we  can  be  ourselves — it 
is  our  only  home;  think  of  furnishing  it  with  shams, 

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and  lighting  every  room  that  should  be  private,  and 
leaving  up  the  blinds  that  the  world  may  look  in  at  a 
penny  a  head!  How  often  have  I  thought  of  William, 
weeping  for  a  living,  as  he  had  to  do  sometimes,  no 
doubt,  and  wondered  what  was  left  for  him  to  do  to  ease 
his  grief  when  Mary  died.  Oh,  curb  the  child,  Ailie! 
curb  the  dear  wee  lassie — it's  you  it  all  depends  on; 
she  worships  you ;  the  making  of  her's  in  your  hands. 
Keep  her  humble.  Keep  her  from  thinking  of  worldly 
glories.  Teach  her  to  number  her  days  that  she  may 
apply  her  heart  unto  wisdom.  Her  mind's  too  often 
out  of  here  and  wandering  elsewhere — it  was  so  with 
William — it  was  once  the  same  with  you." 

Indeed,  it  was  no  wonder  that  Bud's  mind  should 
wander  elsewhere  since  the  life  about  her  had  grown 
so  suddenly  dull.  In  these  days  Wanton  Wully  often 
let  his  morning  sleep  too  long  possess  him,  and  hur- 
rying through  the  deserted  dawn  with  his  breeches 
scarcely  on,  would  ring  the  bell  in  a  hasty  fury  half 
an  hour  behind  the  proper  time.  But  a  little  lateness 
did  not  matter  in  a  town  that  really  never  woke.  Men 
went  to  work  in  what  we  call  a  dover — that  is,  half 
asleep;  shopkeepers  came  blinking  drowsily  down  and 
took  their  shutters  off  and  went  back  to  breakfast,  or, 
I  sometimes  fear,  to  bed,  and  when  the  day  was  aired 
and  decency  demanded  that  they  should  make  some 
pretence  at  business  they  stood  by  the  hour  at  their 
shop  doors  looking  at  the  sparrows,  wagtails,  and 
blue-bonnets  pecking  in  the  street,  or  at  the  gulls  that 
quarrelled  in  the  syver  sand.  Nothing  doing.  Two 
or  three  times  a  day  a  cart  from  the  country  rumbled 
down  the  town  breaking  the  Sabbath  calm;  and  on 
one  memorable  afternoon  there  came  a  dark  Italian 

160 


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with  an  organ  who  must  have  thought  that  this  at  last 
was  Eldorado,  so  great  was  his  reward  from  a  com- 
munity sick  of  looking  at  one  another.  But  otherwise 
nothing  doing,  not  a  thing!  As  in  the  dark  of  the 
fabled  underland  the  men  who  are'  blind  are  kings, 
George  Jordon,  the  silly  man,  who  never  had  a  pur- 
pose, and  carried  about  with  him  an  enviable  eternal 
dream,  seemed  in  that  listless  world  the  only  wide- 
awake, for  he  at  least  kept  moving,  slouching  some- 
where, sure  there  was  work  for  him  to  do  if  only  he 
could  get  at  it.  Bairns  dawdled  to  the  schools,  dogs 
slept  in  the  track  where  once  was  summer  traffic,  Kate, 
melancholy,  billowed  from  the  kitchen  window,  and 
into  the  street  quite  shamelessly  sang  sad,  old  Gaelic 
songs  which  Mr.  Dyce  would  say  would  have  been 
excellent  if  only  they  were  put  to  music,  and  her  voice 
was  like  a  lullaby. 

One  day  Bud  saw  great  bands  of  countless  birds 
depart,  passing  above  the  high-road,  and  standing  in 
the  withering  garden  heard  as  it  were  without  a 
breath  of  wind  the  dry  rattle  of  dead  leaves  fall.  It 
frightened  her.  She  came  quickly  in  to  the  tea-table 
almost  at  her  tears. 

"Oh,  it's  dre'ffle,"  she  said.  "It's  Sunday  all  the 
time,  without  good  clothes  and  the  gigot  of  mutton 
for  dinner.  I  declare  I  want  to  yell." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Miss  Bell,  cheerfully,  "I  was  just 
thinking  things  were  unusually  lively  for  the  time  of 
year.  There's  something  startling  every  other  day. 
Aggie  Williams  found  her  fine,  new  kitchen  range  too 
big  for  the  accommodation,  and  she  has  covered  it  with 
cretonne  and  made  it  into  a  whatnot  for  her  parlor. 
Then  there's  the  cantata;  I  hear  the  U.  P.  choir  is 
going  to  start  to  practise  it  whenever  Duncan  Gill 

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next  door  to  the  hall  is  gone — he's  near  his  end,  poor 
body!  they're  waiting  on,  but  he  says  he  could  never 
die  a  Christian  death  if  he  had  to  listen  to  them  at 
their  operatics  through  the  wall." 

"It's  not  a  bit  like  this  in  Chicago,"  said  the  child, 
and  her  uncle  chuckled. 

"I  dare  say  not,"  said  he.  "What  a  pity  for  Chicago! 
Are  you  wearying  for  Chicago,  lassie?" 

"No,"  said  Bud,  deliberating.  "It  was  pretty 
smelly,  but  my!  I  wish  to  goodness  folk  here  had  a 
little  git-up-and-go  to  them!" 

"Indeed,  I  dare  say  it's  not  a  bit  like  Chicago,"  ad- 
mitted Auntie  Bell.  "It  pleases  myself  that  it's  just 
like  Bonnie  Scotland." 

"It's  not  a  bit  like  Scotland,  either,"  said  Bud. 
"I  calc'lated  Scotland  'd  be  like  a  story-book  all  the 
time,  chock-full  of  men-at-arms  and  Covenanters,  and 
things  father  used  to  talk  about,  Sundays,  when  he 
was  kind  of  mopish  and  wanted  to  make  me  Scotch. 
I've  searched  the  woods  for  Covenanters  and  can't 
find  one ;  they  must  have  taken  to  the  tall  timber  and 
I  haven't  seen  any  men-at-arms  since  I  landed,  'cepting 
the  empty  ones  up  in  the  castle  lobby." 

"What  did  you  think  Scotland  would  be  like,  dear?" 
asked  Ailie. 

"Between  me  and  Winifred  Wallace,  we  figured 
it  would  be  a  great  place  for  chivalry  and  constant 
trouble  among  the  crowned  heads.  I  expected  there'd 
be  a  lot  of  'battles  long  ago,'  same  as  in  the  "  Highland 
Reaper"  in  the  sweet,  sweet  G.  T." 

"What's  G.T.?"  asked  Auntie  Bell; "and  Bud  laugh- 
ed slyly  and  looked  at  her  smiling  Auntie  Ailie,  and 
said:  "We  know,  Auntie  Ailie,  don't  we ?  It's  GRAND ! 
And  if  you  want  to  know,  Auntie  Bell,  it's  just  Mr. 

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Lovely  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury.  That's  a  book, 
my  Lord!  I  expected  there 'd  be  battles  every  day — " 

"What  a  blood-thirsty  child!"  said  Miss  Ailie. 

"I  don't  mean  truly,  truly  battles,"  Bud  hurried  to 
explain,  "but  the  kind  that's  the  same  as  a  sound  of 
revelry  off — no  blood,  but  just  a  lot  of  bang.  But  I 
s'pose  battles  are  gone  out,  like  iron  suits.  Then  I 
thought  there 'd  be  almost  nothing  but  cataracts  and 
ravines  and  —  and  —  mountain  passes,  and  here  and 
there  a  right  smart  Alick  in  short  trunks  and  a  feather 
in  his  hat  winding  a  hunting-horn.  I  used  to  think, 
when  I  was  a  little,  wee,  silly  whitterick,  that  you 
wound  a  horn  every  Saturday  night  with  a  key  just 
like  a  clock;  but  I've  known  for  years  and  years  it's 
just  blowing.  The  way  father  said,  and  from  the  things 
I  read,  I  calc'lated  all  the  folk  in  Scotland  'd  hate  one 
another  like  poison,  and  start  a  clan,  and  go  out  chasing 
all  the  other  clans  with  direful  slogans  and  bagpipes 
skirling  wildly  in  the  genial  breeze.  And  the  place 
would  be  crowded  with  lovelorn  maidens — that  kind 
with  the  starched  millstones  round  their  necks  like 
Queen  Mary  always  wore.  My,  it  must  have  been 
rough  on  dear  old  Mary  when  she  fell  asleep  in  church! 
But  it's  not  a  bit  like  that;  it's  only  like  Scotland  when 
I'm  in  bed,  and  the  wind  is  loud,  and  I  hear  the  geese. 
Then  I  think  of  the  trees  all  standing  out  in  the  dark 
and  wet,  and  the  hills,  too,  the  way  they've  done  for 
years  and  years,  and  the  big,  lonely  places  with  nobody 
in  them,  not  a  light  even;  and  I  get  the  croodles  and 
the  creeps,  for  that's  Scotland,  full  of  bogies.  I  think 
Scotland's  stone-dead." 

"It's  no  more  dead  than  you  are  yourself,"  said  Miss 
Bell,  determined  ever  to  uphold  her  native  land.  "The 
cleverest  people  in  the  world  come  from  Scotland." 

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"So  father  used  to  say;  but  Jim,  he  said  he  guessed 
the  cleverer  they  were  the  quicker  they  came.  I'm 
not  a  bit  surprised  they  make  a  dash  from  home  when 
they  feel  so  dead  and  mopish  and  think  of  things  and 
see  that  road." 

"Road?"  said  Uncle  Dan.     "What  road?" 

"My  road,"  said  the  child.  "The  one  I  see  from 
my  window — oh,  how  it  rises  and  rises  and  winds  and 
winds,  and  it  just  shrieks  on  you  to  come  right  along 
and  try." 

"Try  what?"  asked  her  uncle,  curiously. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Bud,  thinking  hard;  "Auntie  Ailie 
knows,  and  I  'spect  Auntie  Bell  knows,  too.  I  can't 
tell  what  it  is,  but  I  fairly  tickle  to  take  a  walk  along. 
Other  times  I  fee  I'd  be  mighty  afraid  to  go,  but 
Auntie  Ailie  says  you  should  always  do  the  things 
you're  afraid  to  do,  for  they're  most  always  the  only 
things  worth  doing." 

Mr.  Dyce,  scratching  the  ear  of  Footles,  who  begged 
at  the  side  of  his  chair,  looked  over  the  rims  of  his 
glasses  and  scrutinized  the  child. 

"All  roads,"  said  he,  "as  you'll  find  a  little  later, 
come  to  the  same  dead  end,  and  most  of  us,  though 
we  think  we're  picking  our  way,  are  all  the  time  at 
the  mercy  of  the  School-master,  like  Geordie  Jordon. 
The  only  thing  that's  plain  in  the  present  issue  is 
that  we're  not  brisk  enough  here  for  Young  America. 
What  do  you  think  we  should  do  to  make  things 
lively?" 

"Hustle,"  said  Bud.  "Why,  nobody  here  moves 
faster  'n  a  funeral,  and  they  ought  to  gallop  if  they 
want  to  keep  up  with  the  band." 

"I'm  not  in  a  hurry  myself,"  said  her  uncle,  smiling. 
"Maybe  that's  because  I  think  I'm  all  the  band  there 

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is  myself.  But  if  you  want  to  introduce  the  Chicago 
system  you  should  start  with  Mrs.  Wright's  Italian 
warehouse  down  the  street — the  poor  body's  losing 
money  trying  to  run  her  shop  on  philanthropic  prin- 
ciples." 

Bud  thought  hard  a  while.  "Phil— phil—  What's 
a  philanthropic  principle?"  she  asked. 

"It's  a  principle  on  which  you  don't  expect  much 
interest  except  in  another  world,"  said  her  uncle. 
"The  widow's  what  they  call  a  Pilgrim  hereabouts; 
if  the  meek  were  to  inherit  the  earth  in  a  literal  sense, 
she  would  long  ago  have  owned  the  whole  county." 

"A  truly  Christian  woman!"  said  Miss  Bell. 

"I'm  not  denying  it,"  said  Mr.  Dyce;  "but  even  a 
Christian  woman  should  think  sometimes  of  the  claims 
of  her  creditors,  and  between  ourselves  it  takes  me  all 
my  time  to  keep  the  wholesale  merchants  from  hauling 
her  to  court." 

"  How  do  you  manage  it  ?"  asked  Ailie,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eyes;  but  Dan  made  no  reply — he  coughed  and 
cleaned  his  spectacles. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HPHERE  was  joy  a  few  days  later  in  the  Dycesr 
1  kitchen  when  Peter  the  postman,  with  a  snort  that 
showed  the  bitterness  of  his  feelings,  passed  through 
the  window  a  parcel  for  Kate  that  on  the  face  of 
it  had  come  from  foreign  parts.  "I  don't  ken  who 
it's  from^  and  ye're  no'  to  think  I'm  askin',"  said  he; 
"but  the  stamps  alone  for  that  thing  must  have  cost 
a  bonny  penny." 

"Did  they,  indeed!"  said  Kate,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head.  "Ye'll  be  glad  to  ken  he  can  well  afford  it!" 
and  she  sniffed  at  the  parcel  redolent  of  perfumes 
strange  and  strong. 

"Ye  needna  snap  the  nose  off  me,"  said  the  post- 
man; "I  only  made  the  remark.  What — what  does 
the  fellow  do?" 

"He's  a  traveller  for  railway  tunnels,"  retorted  the 
maid  of  Colonsay,  and  shut  the  window  with  a  bang, 
to  tear  open  the  parcel  in  a  frenzy  of  expectation 
and  find  a  bottle  of  Genuine  Riga  Balsam — wonderful 
cure  for  sailors'  wounds! — another  of  Florida  Water, 
and  a  silver  locket,  with  a  note  from  Charles  saying 
the  poem  she  had  sent  was  truly  grand,  and  wishing 
her  many  happy  returns  of  the  day.  Like  many  of 
Charles's  letters  now,  its  meaning  was,  in  parts,  be- 
yond her,  until  she  could  learn  from  Bud  the  nature 
of  the  one  to  which  it  was  an  answer — for  Bud  was  so 

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far  enraptured  with  the  wandering  sailor  that  she  some- 
times sent  him  letters  which  the  servant  never  saw. 
That  day  the  breakfast  service  smelled  of  Florida  Water, 
for  Kate  had  drenched  herself  with  the  perfume,  and 
Miss  Bell  was  sure  she  had  washed  the  dishes  again 
with  scented  soap,  as  was  the  habit  of  the  girl  when 
first  she  came  from  Colonsay  and  thought  that  noth- 
ing but  Brown  Windsor  would  do  justice  to  Grandma 
Buntain's  tea-set  used  on  Sundays.  But  Bud  could  see 
the  signs  of  Shipping  Intelligence,  and  as  soon  as  she 
could  she  hastened  to  the  kitchen,  for  it  was  Saturday, 
and  on  Saturdays  there  were  no  lessons  in  the  Dyce 
Academy.  Oh,  how  she  and  Kate  fondled  the  bottles 
lovingly,  and  sniffed  passionately  at  their  contents, 
and  took  turn  about  of  the  locket!  The  maid  had  but 
one  regret,  that  she  had  no  immediate  use  for  Riga 
Balsam;  but  Bud  was  more  devoted  than  that — she 
gently  pricked  the  palm  of  her  hand  with  a  pin  and 
applied  the  Genuine.  "Oh,  how  he  must  love  me — • 
us,  I  mean!"  she  exclaimed,  and  eagerly  devoured  his 
letter. 

"What  did  you  say  to  him  in  the  last?"  asked  Kate. 
"He's  talking  there  about  a  poetry,  and  happy  returns 
of  the  day." 

Bud  confessed  she  had  made  a  poem  for  him  from 
his  beloved  Kate,  and  had  reckoned  on  fetching  a 
gift  of  candy  by  telling  him  her  birthday  was  on 
Monday.  "But  really  I'd  just  as  lief  have  the  balsam," 
said  she;  "it's  perfectly  lovely;  how  it  nips!" 

"It's  not  my  birthday  at  all,"  said  Kate.  "My 
birthday's  always  on  the  second  Sunday  in  September. 
I  was  born  about  the  same  time  as  Lady  Anne — either 
a  fortnight  before  or  a  fortnight  after;  I  forget  mysel' 
completely  which  it  was,  and  I  dare  say  so  does  she." 

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"No,  but  Monday's  my  birthday,  right  enough," 
said  Bud,  "and  seeing  that  we're  sort  of  loving  him  in 
company,  I  s'posed  it  would  be  all  the  same." 

"So  it  is;  I'm  not  complainin',"  said  the  maid.  "And 
now  we'll  have  to  send  him  something  back.  What 
would  you  recommend?" 

They  considered  many  gifts  appropriate  for  a  sailor 
— sou'westers,  Bible-markers,  woollen  comforters,  and 
paper-knives,  scarf-pins,  gloves,  and  ties.  Bud  was 
sure  that  nothing  would  delight  him  like  a  book  about 
a  desert  island,  but  Kate  said  no,  a  pipe  was  just  the 
very  ticket — a  wooden  pipe  with  silver  mountings;  the 
very  one  to  suit  was  in  the  window  of  Mrs.  Wright's 
Italian  warehouse. 

"What's  an  Italian  warehouse?"  asked  the  child. 

"You  have  me  there,"  said  Kate,  "unless,  maybe, 
her  husband  was  Italian  before  he  went  and  died  on 
her.  'Italian  Warehouse'  is  the  only  thing  that's  on 
her  sign.  She  sells  a  thing  for  almost  any  price  you 
like  to  offer,  because  the  Bible  says  it's  not  the  thing  at 
all  to  argy-bargy." 

"/  know,"  said  Bud;  "it's  what  we  call  running 
a  business  on — on — on  philanthropic  principles.  I'd 
love  to  see  a  body  do  it.  I'll  run  out  and  buy  the  pipe 
from  Mrs.  Wright,  Kate." 

She  departed  on  her  errand  down  the  town,  at  the 
other  side  of  the  church;  and  the  hours  of  the  fore- 
noon passed,  and  dinner-time  was  almost  come,  and 
still  there  was  no  sign  of  her  returning.  Kate  would 
have  lost  her  patience  and  gone  to  seek  for  her,  but 
found  so  much  to  interest  her  at  the  window  that  she 
quite  forgot  her  messenger.  Something  out  of  the 
ordinary  was  happening  on  the  other  side  of  the 
church.  Wanton  Wully  knew  what  it  was,  but  of 

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course  he  was  not  telling,  for  he  Vas  out  as  public 
crier,  rousing  the  town  with  his  hand-bell,  and  shout- 
ing "Notice!"  with  an  air  that  promised  some  tre- 
mendous tidings;  but  beyond  mysterious  words  like 
"bed-rock  prices,"  which  he  mumbled  from  a  paper 
in  his  hand,  there  was  nothing  to  show  this  procla- 
mation differed  from  the  common  ones  regarding  her- 
ring at  the  quay  or  a  sale  of  delft  down-by  at  John 
Turner's  corner.  "What  are  ye  crying?"  they  asked 
him,  but  being  a  man  with  the  belief  that  he  had  a 
voice  as  clear  as  a  concert  singer  he  would  not  con- 
descend to  tell  them.  Only  when  some  one  looked 
across  his  shoulder  and  read  the  paper  for  himself 
was  it  found  that  a  sale  described  as  "Revolutionary" 
was  taking  place  at  the  Italian  warehouse.  Half  the 
town  at  once  went  to  see  what  the  decent  body  was 
up  to.  Kate  saw  them  hurrying  down,  and  when 
they  came  back  they  were  laughing.  "What's  the 
ploy?"  she  asked  a  passer-by. 

"A  sale  at  the  Pilgrim  weedow's,"  she  was  told. 
"She's  put  past  her  Spurgeon's  Sermons  and  got  a 
book  aboot  business,  and  she's  learnin'  the  way  to 
keep  an  Italian  warehouse  in  Scotch." 

Kate  would  have  been  down  the  town  at  once  to 
see  this  marvel  for  herself,  but  her  pot  was  on  the 
boil,  and  here  was  the  mistress  coming  down  the 
stair  crying,  "Lennox,  Lennox!"  The  maid's  heart 
sank.  She  had  forgotten  Lennox,  and  how  could  she 
explain  her  absence  to  a  lady  so  particular?  But  for 
the  moment  she  was  spared  the  explanation,  for  the 
bark  of  Footles  filled  the  street  and  Mr.  Dyce  came 
into  the  lobby  laughing. 

"You're  very  joco!"  said  his  sister,  helping  him  off 
with  his  coat.  "What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

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BUD 

"The  drollest  thing  imaginable,"  said  he.  "I  have 
just  left  Captain  Consequence  in  a  terrible  rage  about 
a  letter  that  a  boy  has  brought  to  him  from  Mrs. 
Wright.  He's  one  of  the  folk  who  brag  of  paying  as 
they  go  but  never  make  a  start.  It  seems  he's  as 
much  in  debt  to  her  as  to  most  of  the  other  merchants 
in  the  place,  but  wasn't  losing  any  sleep  about  it,  for 
she's  such  a  softy.  This  letter  has  given  him  a  start. 
He  showed  it  to  me,  with  the  notion  that  it  was  a  libel 
or  a  threat  that  might  be  actionable,  but  I  assured  him 
I  couldn't  have  written  one  more  to  the  point  myself. 
It  said  that  unless  he  paid  at  once  something  would  be 
apt  to  happen  that  would  create  him  the  utmost  as- 
tonishment." 

"Mercy  on  us!  That's  not  very  like  the  widow; 
she  must  be  getting  desperate." 

"It  was  the  wording  of  the  thing  amused  me,"  said 
Mr.  Dyce,  walking  into  the  parlor  still  chuckling  — 
"'something  will  be  apt  to  happen  that  will  create 
you  the  utmost  astonishment' — it  suggests  such  awful 
possibilities.  And  it's  going  to  serve  its  purpose,  too, 
for  the  Captain's  off  to  pay  her,  sure  it  means  a  scandal. " 

Kate  took  the  chance  to  rush  round  the  kirk  in 
search  of  her  messenger.  "This  way  for  the  big  bar- 
gains!" cried  some  lads  coming  back  from  the  Italian 
warehouse,  or,  "Hey!  ye've  missed  a  step" — which 
shows  how  funny  we  can  be  in  the  smallest  burgh  towns 
—but  Kate  said  nothing  only  "trash!"  to  herself  in 
indignation,  and  tried  by  holding  in  her  breath  to 
keep  from  getting  red. 

The  shop  of  the  Pilgrim  widow  suffered  from  its 
signboard,  that  was  "far  too  big  for  its  job,  like  the 
sweep  that  stuck  in  my  granny's  chimney,"  as  Mr. 
Dyce  said.  Once  the  sign  had  been  P.  &  A.'s,  but 

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P.  &  A.'s  good  lady  tired  of  hearing  her  husband  nick- 
named the  Italian,  and  it  went  back  to  the  painter, 
who  partly  paid  with  it  a  debt  to  the  Pilgrim  widow, 
who  long  since  rued  her  acquisition.  She  felt  in  her 
soul  it  was  a  worldly  vanity — that  a  signboard  less 
obtrusive  on  the  public  eye  would  more  befit  herself 
and  her  two  meek  little  windows,  where  fly-papers, 
fancy  goods,  sweetmeats,  cigarettes,  country  eggs,  and 
cordial  invitations  to  the  Pilgrims'  Mission  Bethel 
every  Friday  (D.  V.},  eight  o'clock,  kept  one  another 
incongruous  and  dusty  company.  A  decent,  pious 
widow,  but  ah!  so  wanting  any  saving  sense  of  guile. 
The  Pilgrim  Mission  was  the  thing  she  really  lived  for, 
and  her  shop  was  the  cross  she  bore.  But  to-day  it 
was  scarcely  recognizable :  the  windows  had  been 
swept  of  their  stale  contents,  and  one  was  filled  with 
piles  of  rosy  apples,  the  other  with  nuts  that  poured  in 
a  tempting  cataract  from  a  cask  upset  with  an  air  of 
reckless  prodigality.  A  large,  hand-lettered  bill  was 
in  each  window ;  one  said : 

"HALLOWE'EN!    ARISE    AND    SHINE!" 

and  the  other: 

"DO    IT    NOW!" 

what  was  to  be  done  being  left  to  the  imagination. 
All  forenoon  there  had  been  a  steady  flow  of  cus- 
tomers, who  came  out  of  the  shop  with  more  than 
nuts  or  apples,  greatly  amazed  at  the  change  in  the 
Pilgrim  widow,  who  was  cracking  up  her  goods  like 
any  common  sinner.  Behind  the  railed  and  curtained 
box,  in  which  she  was  supposed  to  keep  her  books  and 
pray  for  the  whole  community,  there  seemed  to  be  some 

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secret  stimulating  influence,  for  when  bad  payers  tried 
to-day  to  get  a  thing  on  credit,  and  she  was  on  the  point 
of  yielding,  she  would  dart  into  the  box  and  out  again 
as  hard  as  steel,  insisting  that  at  every  Revolutionary 
Sale  the  terms  were  cash.  She  was  giving  bargains, 
but  at  her  own  price,  never  at  her  customers',  as  it  used 
to  be.  The  Health  Saline — extract  of  the  finest  fruit, 
Cooling,  Refreshing,  Invigorating,  Tonic  (though  in- 
deed it  looked  like  an  old  friend  from  Rochelle  with 
a  dash  of  sugar  and  tartaric) — was  down  a  ha'penny, 
to  less  than  what  it  cost,  according  to  another  hand- 
done  bill  upon  the  counter.  When  they  asked  her 
how  she  could  afford  to  sell  the  stuff  below  its  cost, 
she  seemed  ashamed  and  startled,  till  she  had  a  mo- 
ment in  behind  the  curtains,  and  then  she  told  them 
it  was  all  because  of  the  large  turn-over;  she  could  not 
afford  to  sell  the  saline  under  cost  if  she  did  not  sell 
it  in  tremendous  quantities. 

Did  they  want  Ward's  Matchless  Polishing  Paste? 
— alas!  (after  a  dash  behind  the  curtains)  she  was 
completely  out  of  it.  Of  late  it  had  been  in  such 
great  demand  that  she  got  tired  of  ordering  it  every 
other  week  wholesale.  Yes,  she  was  out  of  Ward's, 
but  (again  the  curtained  box)  what  about  this  wonder- 
ful line  in  calf-foot  jelly,  highly  praised  by  the — by 
the  connoisseurs?  What  were  connoisseurs?  A  con- 
noisseur (again  on  reference  behind  the  curtains)  was 
one  of  those  wealthy  men  who  could  swallow  anything. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,"  said  the  tailor,  "I  see't  at 
last!  She's  got  a  book  in  there;  I've  seen't  before 
— The  Way  to  Conduct  a  Retail  Business — and  when 
she  runs  behind,  it's  to  see  what  she  should  say  to  the 
customers.  That's  where  she  got  the  notions  for  her 
window  and  the  'Do  it  Now!'" 

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BUD 

But  he  was  wrong — completely  wrong,  for  when 
Kate  came  into  the  shop  with  "Have  you  seen  Miss 
Lennox,  Mrs.  Wright?  I  sent  her  here  a  message 
hours  ago,"  Lennox  herself  came  from  the  curtained 
box  saying,  "Hello,  Kate;  saw  you  first!  What  can 
we  do  for  you  to  day?" 

' '  My  stars !  you'll  catch  it ! "  said  the  maid.  ' '  They're 
waiting  yonder  on  you  for  your  dinner." 

"I  was  just  heading  for  home,"  said  Bud,  making 
for  the  door. 

"My  child!  my  child!  my  angel  child!"  cried  the 
Pilgrim  widow,  going  to  kiss  her,  but  Bud  drew  back. 

"Not  to-day,  please;  I'm  miles  too  big  for  kissing 
to-day,"  said  she,  and  marched  solemnly  out  of  the 
Italian  warehouse. 

"What  in  the  world  were  you  doing  away  so 
long?"  asked  Kate.  "Were  you  carrying  on  at  any- 
thing?" 

"I  was  paying  for  Charles's  pipe,"  said  the  child, 
returning  the  money  she  had  got  for  its  purchase. 
"That's  the  sweetest  lady,  Mrs.  Wright,  but  my!  ain't 
she  Baby  Mine  when  it  settles  down  to  business?  When 
I  wanted  to  buy  the  pipe,  she  was  so  tickled  she  wanted 
me  to  have  it  for  nothing,  seeing  I  was  Mr.  Dyce's 
niece.  She  said  Uncle  Dan  was  a  man  of  God,  who 
saved  her  more  than  once  from  bankruptcy,  and  it  was 
a  pretty  old  pipe  anyway,  that  had  been  in  the  window 
since  the  time  she  got  changed  and  dropped  brocaded 
dolmans.  You'd  think  it  made  her  ache  to  have  folk 
come  in  her  shop  and  spend  money;  I  guess  she  was 
raised  for  use  in  a  free-soup  kitchen.  I  said  I'd  take 
the  pipe  for  nothing  if  she'd  throw  in  a  little  game  with 
it.  'What  game?'  said  she — oh,  she's  a  nice  lady! — 
and  I  said  I  was  just  dying  to  have  a  try  at  keeping 

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a  really  really  shop,  and  would  show  her  Chicago  way. 
And  you  bet  I  did,  Kate  MacNeill!" 

She  came  in  with  the  soup,  but  no  question  was 
put  till  her  uncle  asked  the  blessing,  and  then,  before 
a  spoon  was  lifted,  Auntie  Bell  said,  "Lassie,  lassie, 
where  in  the  world  have  you  been?" 

"Keeping  shop  for  Mrs.  Wright,"  said  Bud. 

"Tcht!  tcht!  you're  beyond  redemption,"  cried 
her  aunt.  "A  child  like  you  keeping  shop!" 

"A  bonny  pair  of  shopkeepers,  the  widow  and  you! 
which  of  you  counted  the  change?"  said  Uncle  Dan. 
"Tell  us  all  about  it." 

"Well,  I  had  the  loveliest  time,"  said  Bud.  "It 
would  take  till  tea-time  to  tell  just  'zactly  what  a 
lovely  day  it  was,  but  I'll  hurry  up  and  make  it  a 
front  scene.  What  you  said,  Uncle  Dan,  about  her 
running  a  shop  on  phil — on  philanthropic  principles 
made  me  keen  to  see  her  doing  it,  and  I  went  down 
a  message  for  Kate,  and  offered  to  help.  She  'lowed 
herself  she  wasn't  the  best  there  was  in  the  land  at 
keeping  shop,  and  didn't  seem  to  make  much  money 
at  it,  but  said  thank  the  Lord  she  had  the  priceless 
boon  of  health.  I  was  the  first  customer  she'd  set 
eyes  on  all  the  morning,  'cept  a  man  that  wanted 
change  for  half  a  crown  and  hadn't  the  half-crown 
with  him,  but  said  he'd  pay  it  when  he  didn't  see 
her  again,  and  she  said  she  felt  sure  that  trade  was 
going  to  take  a  turn.  I  said  I  thought  it  would  turn 
quicker  if — if — if  she  gave  it  a  push  herself,  and  she 
said  she  dared  say  there  was  something  in  it,  and 
hoped  I  was  in  the  fold.  I  said  I  was,  sure,  and  at  that 
she  cried  out  'Hallelujah!'  Every  other  way  she 
was  a  perfectly  perfect  lady;  she  made  goo-goo  eyes 
at  me,  and  skipped  round  doing  anything  I  told  her. 

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First  she  cleared  all  the  old  truck  out  of  the  windows, 
and  filled  them  up  with  nuts  and  apples  for  Hallowe'en, 
till  they  looked  the  way  windows  never  looked  in 
Scotland  in  all  creation  before,  I  s'pose.  'They'll 
think  it  kind  of  daft,'  says  she,  scared-like,  'they're  not 
like  any  other  windows  in  the  place.'  'Of  course  not,' 
I  said,  'and  that's  the  very  thing  to  jar  the  eye  of  the 
passer-by.'  Jim  Molyneux  said  a  shop-window  was 
like  a  play -bill,  it  wanted  a  star  line — a  feature — a 
whoop.  Then  I  tried  to  think  of  the  'cute  things  shop- 
keepers print  in  Chicago,  but  couldn't  remember  any 
'cepting  'Pants  two  dollars  a  leg,  seats  free,'  but  the 
widow  said  she  didn't  sell  pants.  Then  I  thought  of 
some  natty  little  cards  I'd  seen  that  said  'Arise  and 
Shine!'  and  'Do  it  Now!'  so  I  got  her  to  print  these 
words  good  and  big,  and  put  them  in  the  window.  She 
wanted  to  know  what  they  meant,  but  I  said  I  couldn't 
tell  from  Adam,  but  they  would  make  the  people  won- 
der, and  come  in  the  shop  to  find  out,  and  then  it  would 
be  up  to  her  to  sell  them  something  and  pry  the  money 
out  of  them  before  they  balked.  Oh,  Auntie,  how 
I  go  on!"  and  here  Bud  stopped  almost  breathless  and 
a  little  ashamed. 

"Go  on!  go  on!"  cried  Ailie. 

"Well,  I  got  behind  a  curtain  into  a  little  box- 
office,  where  the  widow  kept  a  cash-book  awfully 
doggy-eared,  and  a  pile  of  printed  sermons,  and  heaps 
of  tracts  about  doing  to  others  as  you  should  be  done 
by,  and  giving  to  the  poor  and  lending  to  the  Lord. 
She  read  bits  of  them  to  me,  and  said  she  sometimes 
wondered  if  Captain  Brodie  was  too  poor  to  pay  for 
eighteen  months'  tobacco,  but  she  didn't  like  to  press 
him,  seeing  he  had  been  in  India  and  fought  his  coun- 
try's battles.  She  said  she  felt  she  must  write,  hjm. 

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again  for  her  money,  but  couldn't  think  of  what  to 
say  that  would  be  Christian  and  polite  and  gentle,  but 
still  make  him  see  she  wanted  the  money  pretty  bad. 
I  said  I  would  tell  her  what  to  say  that  would  suit  just 
fine,  and  I  dictated  it — " 

"I  saw  the  letter,"  said  Uncle  Dan,  twinkling 
through  his  glasses.  "It  was  a  work  of  genius — go 
on!  go  on!" 

"Then  folk  began  to  come  in  for  nuts  and  apples, 
and  asked  what  'Arise  and  Shine'  and  'Do  it  Now' 
meant.  She  said  they  were  messages  from  the "  angel 
of  the  Lord — meaning  me,  I  s'pose — though,  good- 
ness knows,  I'm  not  much  of  an  angel,  am  I,  Auntie 
Bell?  Then  the  folk  would  fade  away,  looking  a  bit 
rattled,  and  come  back  in  a  while  and  ask  the  price 
of  things.  She'd  say  she  wasn't  sure,  but  she  thought 
about  a  shilling,  or  maybe  ninepence,  seeing  they  had 
a  young  family,  and  then  they'd  want  the  stuff  on 
credit,  and  she'd  yammer  away  to  them  till  I  got 
wild.  When  they  were  gone  I  had  a  good  heart- 
to-heart  talk  with  her,  and  said  phil-philanthropic 
principles  were  a  great  mistake  in  a  small  Italian 
warehouse,  and  that  she  ought  to  give  the  customers 
a  chance  of  doing  unto  others  as  they  would  be  done 
by.  She  made  more  goo-goo  eyes  at  me,  and  said  I 
was  a  caution,  sure  enough,  and  perhaps  I  was  right, 
for  she  had  never  looked  at  it  that  way  before.  After 
that  she  spunked  up  wonderful.  I  got  her  to  send 
Mr.  Wanton  through  the  town  with  his  bell,  saying 
there  was  everything  you  wanted  at  Mrs.  Wright's 
at  bed-rock  prices;  and  when  people  came  in  after 
that  and  wanted  to  get  things  for  nothing,  or  next 
to  it,  she'd  pop  into  the  box  where  I  lay  low,  and 
ask  me  what  she  was  to  say  next,  and  then  skip  out 

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to  them  as  sharp  as  a  tack  and  show  they  needn't 
try  to  toy  with  her.  She  says  she  made  more  money 
to-day  by  my  playing  shop  Chicago-way  than  she'd 
make  in  a  week  her  own  way.  Why,  I'm  talking, 
and  talking,  and  talking,  and  my  soup's  stone  cold!" 

"So's  mine,"  said  Uncle  Dan,  with  a  start. 

"And  mine!"  said  Auntie  Ailie,  with  a  smile. 

"And  mine  too,  I  declare!"  cried  Miss  Bell,  with 
a  laugh  they  all  joined  in,  till  Footles  raised  his' voice 
protesting. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

YES,  that  was  one  bright  day  in  the  dismal  season, 
the  day  she  tutored  the  Pilgrim  widow  in  the  newer 
commerce.  There  was  a  happy  night  to  follow  soon, 
and  it  is  my  grief  that  my  pen  cannot  grasp  the  spirit 
of  it,  so  that  reading  you  would  laugh  with  her  and 
whiles  be  eerie.  'Tis  true  there  was  little  in  the  thing 
itself  as  in  most  that  at  the  age  of  twelve  impresses  us 
for  all  our  lives,  but  it  met  in  some  degree  the  expecta- 
tions that  her  father's  tales  of  Scotland  had  sent  home 
with  her.  Hitherto  all  had  been  natural  and  wellnigh 
commonplace  that  she  had  experienced,  all  except  the 
folk  so  queer  and  kind  and  comical  in  a  different  way 
from  those  in  Chicago,  the  sounds  she  could  hear  as 
she  lay  in  her  attic  bed — the  wind-call,  and  the  honk 
of  geese,  and  the  feeling  of  an  island  hopelessly  remote 
from  the  new  bright  world  that  best  she  knew — remote 
and  lost,  a  speck  on  the  sea  far,  far  from  great  America. 
The  last  things  vaguely  troubled  her.  For  she  was 
child  enough  as  yet  to  shiver  at  things  not  touched 
by  daylight  nor  seemingly  made  plain  by  the  common- 
sense  of  man.  She  could  laugh  at  the  ghosts  that 
curdled  the  blood  of  the  maid  of  Colonsay;  and  yet 
at  times,  by  an  effort  of  the  will,  she  could  feel  all 
Kate's  terror  at  some  manifestation  no  more  alarming 
than  the  cheep  of  mice  or  a  death-watch  ticking  in 
a  corner  cupboard.  These  were  but  crude  and  vulgar 

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fears,  self-encouraged  little  actress  terrors.  It  took 
more  than  the  hint  of  ghost  or  the  menace  of  the 
ticking  insect  in  the  wood  to  wake  in  her  the  feeling 
of  worlds  unrealized,  encompassing,  that  she  could 
get  from  casual  verses  in  her  auntie  Ailie's  book  of 
Scottish  ballads,  or  find  o'erwhelm  her  of  a  sudden 
on  looking  from  her  window  into  the  garden  bare  and 
palid  below  the  moon. 

This  night  there  should  be  moon  according  to  the 
penny  almanac,  and  Wanton  Wully  lit  no  lamps,  but 
went  home  for  a  good  sleep  to  himself,  as  his  saying 
went,  and  left  the  burgh  to  such  illumination  as  should 
come  to  it  by  the  caprice  of  the  clouds.  It  lay,  the 
little  place,  for  most  of  the  night  in  darkness:  a  mirk 
so  measureless  deep,  when  the  shops  were  shut,  that  the 
red-lit  skylight  windows  at  the  upper  end  of  the  town 
seemed  by  some  miracle  to  lift  themselves  and  soar 
into  the  heavens — square,  monstrous,  flitting  stars  to 
the  vision  of  Bud,  as  she  stood  with  Auntie  Ailie  at  the 
door  watching  for  Uncle  Dan's  return  from  his  office. 
To  bring  the  soaring  windows  back  to  their  natural 
situation,  she  had  to  stand  a  little  way  inside  the  lobby 
and  establish  their  customary  place  against  the  dark- 
ness by  the  lintel  of  the  door. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  church  came  a  sound 
of  dull,  monotonous  drumming — no  cheerful,  rhythmic 
beat  like  the  drumming  of  John  Taggart,  but  a  mourn- 
ful thumping,  fitful  in  flaws  of  the  bland  night  wind. 

"What's  that,  Auntie?"  she  asked. 

"The  guizards,"  said  Miss  Ailie,  looking  down  upon 
her  in  the  lobby  light  with  a  smile  she  could  not  see. 
"Did  you  never  hear  of  the  guizards,  Bud?" 

Bud  had  never  heard  of  the  guizards;  that  was 
one  thing,  surely,  her  father  had  forgotten.  She  had 

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heard  of  Hallowe'en,  she  said,  when  further  questioned. 
Wasn't  it  the  night  for  ducking  into  tubs  for  apples? 
The  Pilgrim  widow  had  told  her  Hallowe'en  was  com- 
ing, and  it  was  for  Hallowe'en  she  had  sold  so  many 
nuts  and  apples;  but  the  widow  said  she  felt  ashamed 
to  do  it,  for  Hallowe'en  was  not  approved  of  by  the 
Mission,  being  idolatrous  and  gay.  "Is  it  very  gay?" 
asked  Bud,  anxiously. 

"So  I  used  to  think  it,"  said  her  aunt. 

"Then  I  s'pose  it  must  be  wicked,"  said  the  child, 
regretfully.  "I'd  have  expected  you'd  have  Hallow- 
e'en right  here  in  the  house  if  it  hadn't  been  very  bad. 
That  widow  did  me  a  lot  of  good,  showing  me  what  a 
heap  of  happy  things  are  full  of  sin.  She  knew  them 
all!  I  s'pose  she  got  them  in  the  tracts.  Yes,  she  did 
me  a  lot  of  good;  I — I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  met  that 
widow." 

"Do  you  feel  wicked  when  you're  gay?"  asked  Miss 
Ailie. 

"Mercy  on  us!  not  a  mite!"  said  Bud.  "I  feel  plumb 
full  of  goodness  when  I'm  gay;  but  that's  my  youth  and 
innocence.  The  widow  says  it  is,  and  I  guess  what 
she  says  goes." 

"Still,  do  you  know,  my  dear,  I'd  risk  a  little  gayety 
now  and  then,"  said  Auntie  Ailie.  "Who  knows? 
The  widow,  though  a  worthy  lady,  is  what  in  Scotland 
we  call  an  old  wife,  and  it's  generally  admitted  that 
old  wives  of  either  sex  have  no  monopoly  of  wisdom. 
If  you're  wanting  pious  guidance,  Bud,  I  don't  know 
where  you'll  get  it  better  than  from  Auntie  Bell;  and 
she  fairly  dotes  on  Hallowe'en  and  the  guizards.  By- 
and-by  you'll  see  the  guizards,  and — and — well,  just 
wait  and  we'll  find  what  else  is  to  be  seen.  I  do  wish 
your  uncle  Dan  would  hurry." 

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The  street  was  quite  deserted,  but  did  not  show  its 
vacancy  until  the  clouds  for  a  moment  drifted  off  the 
moon  that  rolled  behind  the  steeple.  Then  the  long, 
gray  stretch  of  tenements  came  out  unreal  and  pale 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  their  eaves  and  chim- 
neys throwing  inky  shadows,  their  red- lit  windows 
growing  of  a  sudden  wan.  Over  them  hung  the  pon- 
derous kirk,  the  master  shadow,  and  all — the  white- 
harled  walls,  the  orange  windows,  the  glittering  cold, 
and  empty  street — seemed  like  the  vision  of  a  dream. 
Then  the  clouds  wrapped  up  the  moon  again,  and  the 
black  was  the  black  of  Erebus.  But  as  it  fell,  the 
dull  drums  seemed  to  come  nearer,  and  from  the  head 
of  the  street,  the  windy  corner  where  Uncle  Dan  had 
his  office,  small  moons  came,  purple  and  golden,  fan- 
tastically carved.  They  ran  from  house  to  house,  and 
grouped  in  galaxies,  or  singly  fell  apart,  swinging  and 
giddy  orbs.  For  a  moment  Bud  looked  at  them  be- 
wildered, then  gave  a  happy  scream. 

"The  lanterns!  the  lanterns!  Look  at  the  lanterns, 
Auntie.  Is  that  Hallowe'en?" 

"That's  part  of  it,  at  least,"  said  her  aunt;  "these 
are  the  guizards,  with  their  turnip  lanterns;  they're 
going  round  the  houses  singing;  by-and-by  we'll  hear 
them." 

"My!  I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  a  lantern  like  that. 
To  swing  a  lantern  like  that  I'd  feel  like  being  a  light- 
house or  the  statue  of  Liberty  at  New  York.  I'd 
rather  have  a  turnip  lantern  than  a  raft  of  dolls." 

"Did  you  never  have  one?" 

"No,"  said  Bud,  sorrowfully.  "You  have  no  idea 
what  a  poor  mean  place  Chicago  is — not  a  thing  but 
common  electric  light!"  And  Miss  Ailie  smiled  glee- 
fully to  herself  again  like  one  possessed  of  a  lovely 

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secret.  "I  wish  that  brother  of  mine  would  come 
quickly,"  she  said,  and  at  the  moment  he  came  out  of 
the  darkness  to  them  with  a  comical  look  of  embar- 
rassment in  his  face  and  in  his  hand  an  unlighted  tur- 
nip lantern. 

"Here,  Bud,"  said  he,  "take  this  quickly,  before 
some  silly  body  sees  me  with  it  and  thinks  it's  for  my- 
self. I  have  the  name,  I  know,  of  being  daft  enough 
already,  and  if  it  gets  about  the  country  that  Daniel 
Dyce  was  going  round  at  Hallowe'en  with  a  turnip 
lantern,  they  would  think  he  had  lost  his  head  in  a 
double  sense,  and  it  would  be  very  bad  for  business." 

"Uncle!"  cried  the  child,  in  ecstasy,  "you're  the 
loveliest,  sweetest  man  in  the  whole  wide  world." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  he.  "I  have  been  much  admired 
when  I  was  younger.  But  in  this  case  don't  blame  me. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  the  responsibility.  I  got  my 
orders  for  that  thing  from  your  auntie  Bell." 

"My!  ain't  it  cute!  Did  you  make  it?"  asked  Bud, 
surveying  the  rudely  carved  exterior  with  delight,  and 
her  uncle,  laughing,  put  on  his  glasses  to  look  at  it 
himself. 

"No,"  said  he,  "though  I've  made  a  few  of  them  in 
my  time.  All  that's  needed  is  a  knife  or  a  mussel- 
shell,  and  a  dose  of  Gregory's  Mixture  in  the  morning." 

"What's  the  Gregory's  Mixture  for?" 

"In  making  a  turnip  lantern  you  eat  the  whole  in- 
side of  it,"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "Perhaps  I  might  have 
made  this  one  myself  if  it  wasn't  that  I  know  I  would 
hate  to  see  the  inside  wasted,  and  still  I  have  mind  of 
the  Gregory.  I  bought  the  lantern  from  a  boy  at  the 
head  of  the  street  who  was  looking  very  gash  and  ill, 
and  seemed  suspiciously  glad  to  get  quit  of  it.  I'm 
thinking  that  his  Gregory's  nearly  due." 

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Bud  hardly  listened,  she  was  so  taken  up  with  her 
gift.  She  pounced  at  the  handle  of  the  kitchen  door 
and  found  it  snibbed  within.  "Kate!  Kate!"  she 
cried;  "let  me  in  to  light  my  lantern." 

Kate  was  to  be  heard  moving  within,  and  there  was 
a  curious  sound  of  giggling,  but  no  answer. 

"Open  the  door — quick,  quick!"  cried  Bud,  again, 
and  this  time  Auntie  Bell,  inside,  said: 

"Yes,  open,  Kate;  I  think  we're  ready." 

The  door  of  the  kitchen  opened,  and  before  the  eyes 
of  the  child  was  a  spectacle  the  more  amazing  and 
delightful  since  all  day  they  had  taken  pains  to  keep 
the  preparations  secret.  A  dozen  children,  who  had 
been  smuggled  in  by  the  back  door  in  the  close,  were 
seated  round  a  tub  of  water  with  floating  apples,  and 
they  were  waiting  her  presence  to  begin  their  fun. 

Oh,  how  happy  was  that  hour!  But  not  just  then 
came  the  thrill  of  which  I'm  thinking.  It  was  not  the 
laughter  and  the  ducking  in  the  tub,  the  discoveries 
of  rings  and  buttons,  thimbles,  and  scuddy  little  dolls 
and  silver  pieces  hidden  in  the  mound  of  champed 
potatoes  Kate  had  cooked;  nor  the  supper  that  fol- 
lowed, nor  the  mating  of  nuts  on  the  fire-ribs,  that  gave 
the  eerie  flavor  of  old  time  and  the  book  of  ballads. 
She  liked  them  all;  her  transport  surely  was  com- 
pleted when  the  guizards  entered,  black-faced,  gar- 
mented as  for  a  masque,  each  thumping  a  she.epskin 
stretched  on  a  barrel-hoop — the  thing  we  call  a  dallan. 
She  had  never  discovered  before  what  a  soul  of  gayety 
was  in  Auntie  Bell,  demure  so  generally,  practising 
sobriety,  it  might  seem,  as  if  she  realized  her  dancing 
days  were  over  and  it  was  time  for  her  to  remember 
all  her  years.  To-night  Miss  Bell  outdid  even  Ailie  in 
her  merriment,  led  the  games  in  the  spacious  kitchen, 

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and  said  such  droll  things,  and  kept  the  company  in 
such  a  breeze  that  Ailie  cried  at  last,  "I  think,  Bell, 
that  you're  fey!" 

"Indeed,  and  I  dare  say  you're  right,"  admitted  Bell, 
sinking  in  a  chair  exhausted.  "At  my  time  of  life 
it's  daft;  I  have  not  laughed  so  much  since  I  was  at 
Barbara  Mushet's  seminary." 

Not  these  things,  but  the  half-hour  after,  was  what 
made  the  evening  memorable  for  the  child.  Nothing 
would  satisfy  her  but  that  she  should  light  her  lantern 
and  convoy  the  other  children  home;  so  Kate  went 
with  her,  and  the  happy  band  went  through  the  street, 
each  dropping  off  at  her  own  house  front  till  the 
last  was  gone,  and  then  Bud  and  the  maid  turned 
back. 

But  Kate  had  a  project  in  her  mind  that  had  been 
there  all  night  since  she  had  burned  two  nuts  for  her- 
self and  Charles  in  the  kitchen  fire,  and  found  them 
willing  to  flame  quite  snug  together.  That,  so  far, 
was  satisfactory,  but  she  wanted  more  assurance  of 
the  final  triumph  of  her  love.  There  was,  it  seemed, 
a  skilful  woman  up  the  lane  who  knew  spells  and  magic, 
read  tea-cups  and  the  cards,  and  could  unravel  dreams. 
Notably  was  she  good  at  Hallowe'en  devices,  and 
Bud  must  come  and  see  her,  for  it  would  not  take  a 
minute. 

They  found  their  way  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  to 
the  spae-wife's  door,  and  to  a  poor  confidant  of  fate 
and  fortune  surely,  since  she  had  not  found  them 
kinder  to  herself,  for  she  dwelt  in  a  hovel  where  fool- 
ish servant-girls  came  at  night  with  laughter  and  fears 
to  discover  what  the  future  held  for  them.  Bud, 
standing  on  the  floor  in  the  circle  of  light  from  her  ov/n 
lantern,  watched  the  woman  drop  the  white  of  an 

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egg  in  a  glass  of  water.  In  the  clot  of  the  albumen, 
which  formed  some  wavering,  vague  figures,  she  peered 
and  found,  she  said,  the  masts  of  ships  and  a  crowded 
harbor,  and  that  meant  a  sailor  husband. 

"Was  I  not  sure  of  it!"  cried  Kate,  triumphant ; "but 
that  was  not  the  end  of  the  ceremony,  for  she  was  bidden 
to  sip  a  little  from  the  glass,  without  swallowing,  and 
go  dumb  into  the  night  till  she  heard  the  Christian 
name  of  a  man,  and  that  was  the  name  of  the  sailor 
husband.  Kate  sipped  from  the  glass  of  destiny,  and 
passed  with  Bud  into  the  darkness  of  the  lane.  It 
was  then  there  came  to  the  child  the  delicious,  wild 
eerieness  that  she  was  beginning  now  to  coax  to  her 
spirit  whenever  she  could,  and  feed  her  fancies  on. 
The  light  of  the  lantern  only  wanly  illumined  the  lane 
they  hurried  through;  so  plain  and  gray  and  ancient 
and  dead  looked  the  houses  pressing  on  either  hand, 
with  windows  shuttered,  that  it  seemed  to  Bud  she 
had  come  by  magic  on  a  shell  as  empty  of  life  as 
the  armor  in  the  castle  hall.  By-and-by  the  servant, 
speechless,  stopped  at  a  corner  listening.  No  sound 
of  human  life  for  a  moment,  but  then  a  murmur  of  voices 
up  the  town,  to  which  on  an  impulse  she  started  run- 
ning, with  Lennox  at  her  heels,  less  quickly  since  the 
light  of  her  lantern  must  be  nursed  from  the  wind. 
Bud  fell  behind  in  the  race  for  the  voice  of  fate;  the 
sound  of  the  footsteps  before  her  died  away  in  the 
distance,  and  her  light  went  out,  and  there  she  stood 
alone  for  the  first  time  in  the  dark  of  Scotland — Scot- 
land where  witches  still  wrought  spells!  A  terror  that 
was  sweet  to  think  of  in  the  morning,  whose  memory 
she  cherished  all  her  days,  seized  on  her,  and  she  knew 
that  all  the  ballad  book  was  true!  One  cry  she  gave, 
that  sounded  shrilly  up  the  street — it  was  the  name 

185 


BUD 

of  Charles,  and  Kate,  hearing  it,  gulped  and  came 
back. 

"I  guessed  that  would  fetch  you,"  said  Bud,  panting. 
"  I  was  so  scared  I  had  to  say  it,  though  I  s'pose  it 
means  I've  lost  him  for  a  husband." 

"My  stars!  you  are  the  clever  one!"  said  the  grateful 
maid. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SPRING  came,  and  its  quickening;  forest  and 
shrub  and  flower  felt  the  new  sap  rise;  she  grew 
in  the  garden  then,  the  child — in  that  old  Scottish 
garden,  sheltered  lownly  in  the  neuk  of  the  burgh  walls. 
It  must  have  been  because  the  Dyces  loved  so  much 
their  garden,  and  spent  so  many  hours  there,  that  they 
were  so  sanely  merry,  nor  let  too  often  or  too  long  the 
Scots'  forebodings  quell  their  spirits,  but  got  lessons 
of  hope  from  the  circling  of  the  seasons,  that  give  us 
beauty  and  decay  in  an  unvarying  alternation. 

"It  is  the  time,"  used  Ailie  to  say  of  the  spring, 
"when  a  delicious  feeling  steals  over  you  of  wanting 
to  sit  down  and  watch  other  people  work." 

"I'll  need  to  have  the  lawn-mower  sharpened;  it 
may  be  needed  at  any  moment  by  the  neighbors,"  said 
her  brother  Dan. 

They  watched  upspring  the  green  spears  of  the  daffo- 
dils, that  by-and-by  should  bear  their  flags  of  gold. 

And  Wanton  Wully,  when  he  was  not  bell-ringing,  or 
cleaning  the  streets,  or  lounging  on  the  quay  to  keep 
tally  of  ships  that  never  came,  being  at  ports  more 
propinque  to  the  highways  of  the  world,  where  folks 
are  making  fortunes  and  losing  much  innocent  diver- 
sion, wrought — as  he  would  call  it — in  the  Dyce's  gar- 
den. Not  a  great  gardener,  admittedly,  for  to  be  great 
in  versatility  is  of  necessity  to  miss  perfection  in  any- 

187 


BUD 

thing,  so  that  the  lowest  wages  in  the  markets  of  the 
world  are  for  the  handy  man.  But  being  handy  is  its 
own  reward,  carrying  with  it  the  soothing  sense  of 
self-sufficiency,  so  we  need  not  vex  ourselves  for  Wully. 
As  he  said  himself,  he  "did  the  turn"  for  plain,  un- 
ornamental  gardening,  though  in  truth  he  seemed  to 
think  he  did  it  best  when  sitting  on  his  barrow  trams, 
smoking  a  thoughtful  pipe  and  watching  the  glad 
spring  hours  go  by  at  a  cost  of  sixpence  each  to  the 
lawyer  who  employed  him. 

Bud  often  joined  him  on  the  trams,  and  gravely 
listened  to  him,  thinking  that  a  man  who  did  so  many 
different  and  interesting  things  in  a  day  was  wise  and 
gifted  beyond  ordinary.  In  the  old  and  abler  years 
he  had  been  a  soldier,  and,  nursing  flowers  nowadays, 
his  mind  would  oft  incongruously  dwell  on  scenes  re- 
mote and  terribly  different  where  he  had  delved  in 
foreign  marl  for  the  burial  of  fallen  comrades. 

"Tell  me  Inkerman  again,  Mr.  Wanton,"  Bud  would 
say,  "and  I'll  shoo  off  the  birds  from  the  blub-flow- 
ers." 

"I'll  do  that,  my  dearie!"  he  would  answer,  filling 
another  pipe,  and  glad  of  an  excuse  to  rest  from  the 
gentle  toil  of  raking  beds  and  chasing  birds  that  nipped 
the  tips  from  peeping  tulip  leaves.  "To  the  mischief 
with  them  birds!  the  garden's  fair  polluted  wi'  them! 
God  knows  what's  the  use  o'  them  except  for  chirping, 
chirping —  Tchoo!  off  wi'  ye  at  once,  or  I'll  be  after 
ye! —  Ay,  ay,  Inkerman.  It  was  a  gey  long  day, 
I'm  tellin'  ye,  from  a  quarter  past  six  till  half -past 
four;  slaughter,  slaughter  a'  the  time;  me  wi'  an  awfu' 
hacked  heel,  and  no'  a  bit  o'  anything  in  my  stomach. 
A  nesty,  saft  day,  wi'  a  smirr  o'  rain.  We  were  as 
black  as — as  black  as — as — " 

188 


BUD 

"As  black  as  the  Earl  o'  Hell's  waistcoat,"  Bud 
prompted  him.  "Go  on!  I  mind  the  very  words." 

"I  only  said  that  the  once,"  said  Wully,  shocked  at 
her  glibness  in  the  uptake.  "And  it's  not  a  thing  for 
the  like  o'  you  to  say  at  all;  it's  only  the  word  o'  a 
rowdy  sodger." 

"Well,  ain't  I  the  limb!  I'll  not  say  it  again," 
promised  the  child;  "you  needn't  look  as  solemn's  the 
Last  Trump.  Go  on,  go  on!" 

"As  black  as  a  ton  o'  coal,  wi'  the  creesh  o'  the  car- 
tridges and  the  poother;  it  was  the  Minie"  gun,  ye. ken. 
And  the  Rooshians  would  be  just  ower  there  between 
the  midden  and  the  cold-frame,  and  we  would  be  com- 
ing doon  on  them — it  micht  be  ower  the  sclates  o' 
Rodger's  hoose  yonder.  We  were  in  the  Heavy  Di- 
veesion,  and  I  kill't  my  first  man  that  I  kent  o'  aboot 
where  the  yellow  crocus  is.  Puir  sowl!  I  had  nae  ill- 
will  to  the  man,  I'll  guarantee  ye  that;  but  we  were 
baith  unloaded  when  we  met  each  other,  and  it  had  to 
be  him  or  me." 

He  paused  and  firmed  his  mouth  until  the  lips  were 
lost  among  the  puckers  gathered  round  them,  a  curious 
glint  in  his  eyes. 

"Go  on!"  cried  Bud,  sucking  in  her  breath  with  a 
horrid  expectation,  "ye  gie'd  him — ye  gie'd  him — " 

"I  gie'd  him — I  tell't  ye  what  I  gie'd  him  before. 
Will  I  need  to  say't  again?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bud,  "for  that's  your  top  note." 

"I  gie'd  him  —  I  gie'd  him  the  —  the  baggonet!" 
cried  the  gardener,  with  a  sudden,  frightful,  furious 
flinging  of  the  arms,  and  then — oh,  silly  Wully  Oliver! 
— began  to  weep,  or  at  least  to  show  a  tear.  For  Bud 
had  taught  him  to  think  of  all  that  lay  beyond  that 
furious  thrust  of  the  bayonet — the  bright,  brave  life 
13  189 


BUD 

extinguished,  the  mother  rendered  childless,  or  the  chil- 
dren fatherless,  in  some  Russian  home. 

Bell,  the  thrifty  woman,  looking  from  the  scullery 
window,  and  seeing  time  sadly  wasted  at  twelve  baw- 
bees the  hour,  would  come  out  and  send  the  child  in  to 
her  lessons,  but  still  the  orra  gardener  did  not  hurry  to 
his  task,  for  he  knew  the  way  to  keep  Miss  Dyce  in  an  idle 
crack,  although  she  would  not  sit  on  his  barrow  trams. 

"A  wonderfu'  wean  that!"  would  be  his  opening. 
"A  perfect  caution!  I  can  see  a  difference  on  her 
every  day;  she  grows  like  a  willow  withy,  and  she's 
losin'  yon  awfu'  Yankee  awcent  she  had  about  her 
when  she  came  at  first.  She  speaks  as  bonny  English 
noo  as  you  or  me,  when  she  puts  her  mind  to.'t." 

"I'm  afraid  it  would  not  be  very  difficult  for  her  to 
do  that,  Willy,"  said  Miss  Bell.  "She  could  always 
speak  in  any  way  she  wanted,  and,  indeed,  the  first 
time  that  we  heard  her  she  was  just  yoursel'  on  a 
New  Year's  morning,  even  to  the  hiccough.  I  hope 
you'll  keep  a  watch  on  what  you  say  to  her;  the  bairn 
picks  up  the  things  she  hears  so  fast,  and  she's  so  in- 
nocent, that  it's  hardly  canny  to  let  her  listen  much  to 
the  talk  of  a  man  that's  been  a  soldier — not  that  I 
blame  the  soldiers,  Willy,  bless  them  all  for  Scotland, 
young  or  old!" 

"Not  a  word  out  of  place  from  me,  Miss  Dyce," 
would  he  cry,  emphatic.  "Only  once  I  slippit  oot  a 
hell,  and  could  have  bit  my  tongue  oot  for  it.  We 
heard,  ye  ken,  a  lot  o'  hells  oot  yonder  roond  aboot 
Sevastapool:  it  wasna  Mr.  Meikle's  Sunday-school. 
But  ye  needna  fear  that  Wully  Oliver  would  learn  ill 
language  to  a  lady  like  the  wee  one.  Whatever  I 
am  that's  silly  when  the  dram  is  in,  I  hope  I'm  aye 
the  perfect  gentleman." 

190 


BUD 

"Indeed,  I  never  doubted  it,"  said  Miss  Bell.  "But 
you  know  yourself  we're  anxious  that  she  should  be  all 
that's  gentle,  nice,  and  clean.  When  you're  done 
raking  this  bed  —  dear  me!  I'm  keeping  you  from 
getting  at  it — it  '11  be  time  for  you  to  go  home  for 
dinner.  Take  a  bundle  of  rhubarb  for  the  mistress." 

"Thanky,  thanky,  me'm,"  said  Wanton  Wully, 
"but,  to  tell  the  truth,  we're  kind  o'  tired  o'  rhubarb; 
I'm  getting  it  by  the  stone  from  every  bit  c'  grun  I'm 
laborin'  in.  I  wish  folk  were  so  rife  wi'  plooms  or 
strawberries." 

Bell  laughed.  "It's  the  herb  of  kindness,"  said  she. 
"There's  aye  a  reason  for  everything  in  nature,  and 
rhubarb's  meant  to  keep  our  generosity  in  practice." 

And  there  she  would  be,  the  foolish  woman,  keep- 
ing him  at  the  crack,  the  very  thing  he  wanted,  till  Mr. 
Dyce  himself,  maybe,  seeing  his  silver  hours  mis- 
handled, would  come  to  send  his  sister  in,  and  see 
his  gardener  earned  at  least  a  little  of  his  wages. 

"A  terrible  man  for  the  ladies,  William!"  was  all 
that  the  lawyer  had  to  say.  "There  was  some  talk 
about  doing  a  little  to  the  garden,  but,  hoots,  man! 
don't  let  it  spoil  your  smoke!" 

It  was  then  you  would  see  Wanton  Wully  busy. 

Where  would  Bud  be  then?  At  her  lessons?  No, 
no,  you  may  be  sure  of  it;  but  in  with  Kate  of  Colon- 
say,  giving  the  maid  the  bloody  tale  of  Inkerman. 
It  was  a  far  finer  and  more  moving  story  as  it  came 
from  Bud  than  ever  it  was  on  the  lips  of  Wanton  Wully. 
From  him  she  only  got  the  fling  of  the  arms  that  drove 
the  bayonet  home,  the  lips  pursed  up  as  if  they  were 
gathered  by  a  string,  the  fire  of  the  moment,  and  the 
broad  Scots  tongue  he  spoke  in.  To  what  he  gave  she 
added  fancy  and  the  drama. 


BUD 

"As  black  as  a  ton  o'  coal,  wi'  the  creesh  o'  the  car- 
tridges; .  .  .  either  him  or  me;  ...  I  gie'd  him,  ...  I 
gie'd  him;  ...  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  said,  'O  God,  Thy 
pardon!'  and  gie'd  him  the  BAGGONET!" 

Kate's  apron  at  that  would  fly  up  to  cover  her  eyes, 
for  she  saw  before  her  all  the  bloody  spectacle.  "I'm 
that  glad,"  she  would  say,  "that  my  lad's  a  sailor. 
I  couldna  sleep  one  iota  at  night  thinkin'  of  their 
baggonets  if  he  was  a  man  o'  war.  And  that  £uts  me 
in  mind,  my  dear,  it's  more  than  a  week  since  we  sent 
the  chap  a  letter.  Have  you  time  the  now  to  sit  and 
write  a  scrape  to  Hamburg  on  the  Elbow — imports 
iron  ore?" 

And  Bud  had  time,  and  sit  she  would  and  write  a 
lovely  letter  to  Charles  Maclean  of  Oronsay.  She  told 
him  that  her  heart  was  sore,  but  she  must  confess  that 
she  had  one  time  plighted  her  troth  to  a  Russian  army 
officer,  who  died,  alas!  on  the  bloody  field.  His  last 
words,  as  his  life-blood  slowly  ebbed  away,  were : 

"What  would  be  the  last  words  of  a  Russian  officer 
who  loved  you?"  asked  Bud,  biting  her  pen  in  her 
perplexity. 

"Toots!  anything — 'my  best  respects  to  Kate,' "  said 
the  maid,  who  had  learned  by  this  time  that  the  letters 
Charles  liked  the  most  were  the  ones  where  Bud  most 
freely  used  imagination. 

"I  don't  believe  it  would,"  said  Bud.  "It  'd  sound 
far  too  calm  for  a  man  that's  busy  dying."  But  she  put 
it  down  all  the  same,  feeling  it  was  only  fair  that  Kate 
should  have  some  say  in  the  letters  written  in  her 
name. 

That  was  the  day  they  gave  him  a  hint  that  a  cap- 
tain was  wanted  on  the  yacht  of  Lady  Anne. 

And  still  Kate's  education  made  some  progress,  as 
192 


BUD 

you  may  see  from  what  she  knew  of  Hamburg,  though 
she  was  not  yet  the  length  of  writing  her  own  love- 
letters.  She  would  sit  at  times  at  night  for  hours 
quite  docile,  knitting  in  the  kitchen,  listening  to  the 
reading  of  the  child.  A  score  of  books  had  been  tried 
on  her  by  Aunt  Ailie's  counsel  (for  she  was  in  the 
secret  of  this  Lower  Dyce  Academy),  but  none  there 
was  that  hit  the  pupil's  fancy  half  so  much  as  her 
own  old  favorite  penny  novelettes  till  they  came  one 
happy  day  to  The  Pickwick  Papers.  Kate  grew  very 
fond  of  The  Pickwick  Papers.  The  fun  of  them  being 
in  a  language  quite  unknown  in  Colonsay  was  almost 
all  beyond  her.  But  "that  poor  Mr.  Puckwuck!"  she 
would  cry  at  each  untoward  accident;  "oh,  the  poor 
wee  man!"  and  the  folk  were  as  real  to  her  as  if  she 
had  known  them  all  in  Colonsay.  If  Dickens  could 
have  known  the  curious  sentiments  his  wandering  hero 
roused  in  this  Highland  servant  mind  he  would  have 
greatly  wondered. 

While  Bud  was  tutoring  Kate  that  spring,  Miss  Bell 
was  thinking  to  take  up  the  training  of  Bud  herself 
in  wiselike  housekeeping.  The  child  grew  as  fast  in 
her  mind  as  in  her  body;  each  day  she  seemed  to  drift 
farther  away  from  the  hearth  and  into  the  world  from 
which  her  auntie  would  preserve  her — into  the  world 
whose  doors  books  widely  opened,  Auntie  Ailie's  magic 
key  of  sympathy,  and  the  genius  of  herself.  So  Bell 
determined  there  and  then  to  coax  her  into  the  gentle 
arts  of  domesticity  that  ever  had  had  a  fascination  for 
herself.  She  went  about  it,  oh,  so  cunningly!  letting 
Bud  play  at  the  making  of  beds  and  the  dusting  of 
the  stair-rails  and  the  parlor  beltings — the  curly-wurly 
places,  as  she  called  them,  full  of  quirks  and  holes 
and  corners  that  the  unelect  like  Kate  of  Colonsay  will 

193 


BUD 

always  treat  perfunctorily  in  a  general  wipe  that  only 
drives  the  dirt  the  farther  in.  Bud  missed  not  the 
tiniest  corner  nor  the  deepest  nook;  whatever  she  did, 
she  did  fastidiously,  much  to  the  joy  of  her  aunt,  who 
was  sure  it  was  a  sign  she  was  meant  by  the  Lord  for 
a  proper  housewife.  But  the  child  soon  tired  of  mak- 
ing beds  and  dusting,  as  she  did  of  white-seam  sew- 
ing; and  when  Bell  deplored  this  falling  off,  Ailie  said: 
"You  cannot  expect  everybody  to  have  the  same  gifts 
as  yourself.  Now  that  she  has  proved  she's  fit  to 
clean  a  railing  properly,  she's  not  so  much  to  blame 
if  she  loses  interest  in  it.  The  child's  a  genius,  Bell,  and 
to  a  person  of  her  temperament  the  thing  that's  easily 
done  is  apt  to  be  contemptuous;  the  glory's  in  the  tri- 
umph over  difficulties,  in  getting  on — getting  on — getting 
on,"  and  Ailie's  face  grew  warm  with  some  internal  fire. 

At  that  speech  Bell  was  silent.  She  thought  it  just 
another  of  Ailie's  haiverings;  but  Mr.  Dyce,  who  heard, 
suddenly  became  grave. 

"Do  you  think  it's  genius  or  precocity?"  he  asked. 

"They're  very  much  the  same  thing,"  said  Ailie. 
"If  I  could  be  the  child  I  was;  if  I  could  just  re- 
member— "  She  stopped  herself  and  smiled.  "What 
vanity!"  said  she;  "what  conceit!  If  I  could  be  the 
child  I  was,  I  dare  say  I  would  be  pretty  common- 
place, after  all,  and  still  have  the  same  old  draigled 
pinnies;  but  I  have  a  notion  that  Lennox  was  never 
meant  to  make  beds,  dust  stair-railings,  or  sit  in  a 
parlor  listening,  demure,  to  gossip  about  the  village 
pump  and  Sacrament  Sunday  bonnets.  To  do  these 
things  are  no  discredit  to  the  women  who  are  meant 
to  do  them,  and  who  do  them  well;  but  we  cannot  all 
be  patient  Marthas.  I  know,  because  I've  honestly 
tried  my  best  myself." 

194 


BUD 

"When  you  say  that,  you're  laughing  at  me,  I  fear," 
said  Bell,  a  little  blamefully. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  you,"  said  her  sister,  vexed. 
"And  if  I  was,  and  had  been  laughing,  I  would  be 
laughing  at  the  very  things  I  love ;  it's  only  the  other 
things  that  make  me  solemn.  Your  way,  Bell,  was 
always  clear  before  you — there  you  were  the  lucky 
woman;  with  genius,  as  we  have  it  in  the  child,  the 
way's  perplexed  and  full  of  dangers." 

"Is  she  to  be  let  drift  her  own  way?" 

"We  got  her  ten  years  too  late  to  prevent  it,"  said 
Miss  Ailie,  firmly,  and  looked  at  her  brother  Dan  for 
some  assistance.  He  had  Footles  on  his  lap,  stroking 
his  tousy  back,  and  he  listened  with  twinkling  eyes  to 
the  argument,  humming  the  air  of  the  day,  that  hap- 
pened to  be  "Robin  Tamson's  Smiddy,  O!" 

"You're  both  right  and  you're  both  wrong,  as  Mr. 
Cleland  used  to  say  if  he  was  taking  a  dram  with  folk 
that  had  an  argument,"  said  the  lawyer;  "but  I'm  not 
so  clever  as  Colin  Cleland,  for  I  can't  ring  the  bell  and 
order  in  the  media  sententia.  This  I'll  say,  that  to 
my  mind  the  child  is  lucky  if  she's  something  short  of 
genius.  If  I  had  had  a  son,  my  prayer  would  always 
be  that  he  should  be  off  and  on  about  the  ordinary. 
It's  lonely  on  the  mountain-top,  and  genius  generally 
seems  to  go  with  a  poor  stomach  or  a  bad  lung,  and 
pays  an  awful  price  for  every  ecstasy!" 

"Shakespeare!"  suggested  Miss  Ailie. 

"And  Robert  Burns!"  cried  Bell.  "Except  for  the 
lass  and  the  glass  and  the  randan —  Poor,  misguided 
laddie!  he  was  like  the  folk  he  lived  among.  And 
there  was  Walter  Scott,  the  best  and  noblest  man  God 
ever  gave  to  Scotland ;  he  was  never  on  the  mountain- 
top  except  it  was  to  bring  a  lot  of  people  with  him  there." 


BUD 

Mr.  Dyce  cleaned  his  glasses  and  chuckled.  "H'm," 
said  he,  "I  admit  there  are  exceptions.  But  please 
pass  me  my  slippers,  Bell ;  I  fall  back  on  Colin  Cleland 
— you're  both  right  and  you're  both  wrong." 

Miss  Bell  was  so  put  about  at  this  that  she  went 
at  once  to  the  kitchen  to  start  her  niece  on  a  course  of 
cookery. 


CHAPTER  XX 

KATERIN!"  she  said,  coming  into  the  kitchen 
with  a  handful  of  paper  cuttings,  and,  hearing 
her,  the  maid's  face  blanched. 

"I  declare  I  never  broke  an  article  the  day!"  she 
cried,  protestingly,  well  accustomed  to  that  formal 
address  when  there  had  been  an  accident  among  her 
crockery. 

"I  wasn't  charging  you,"  said  her  mistress.  "Dear 
me!  it  must  be  an  awful  thing,  a  guilty  conscience!  I 
was  thinking  to  give  you — and  maybe  Lennox,  if  she 
would  not  mind — a  lesson  or  two  in  cookery.  It's  a 
needful  thing  in  a  house  with  anything  of  a  family. 
You  know  what  men  are!" 

"Fine  that!"  said  Kate.  "They're  always  thinking 
what  they'll  put  in  their  intervals,  the  greedy  deevils! 
— beg  your  pardon,  but  it's  not  a  swear  in  the  Gaelic." 

"There's  only  one  devil  in  any  language,  Kate," 
said  Miss  Bell.  "'How  art  thou  fallen  from  heaven, 

0  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning!'     And  I  am  glad  to 
think  he  is  oftener  on  our  foolish  tongues  than  in  our 
hearts.     I  have  always  been  going  to  give  you  a  cook- 
ery-book." 

"A  cookery-book!"  cried  the  maid.     "Many  a  time 

1  saw  one  out  in  Colonsay;  for  the  minister's  wife  had 
one  they  called  Meg  Dods,  that  was  borrowed  for  every 
wedding.     But  it  was  never  much  use  to  us,  for  it 

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started  everything  with,  'Take  a  clean  dish,'  or  'Mince 
a  remains  of  chicken,'  and  neither  of  them  was  very 
handy  out  in  the  isle  of  Colonsay." 

Miss  Bell  laid  out  her  cuttings  on  the  dresser — a 
mighty  pile  of  recipes  for  soups  and  stews,  puddings 
and  cakes,  sweetmeats,  and  cordial  wines  that  could 
be  made  deliciously  from  elder  and  mulberry,  if  here- 
abouts we  had  such  fruits  to  make  them  with.  She 
had  been  gathering  these  scraps  for  many  years,  for 
the  household  column  was  her  favorite  part  of  the 
paper  after  she  was  done  with  the  bits  that  showed 
how  Scotsmen  up  in  London  were  at  the  head  of  every- 
thing or  did  some  doughty  deed  on  the  field  of  war. 
She  hoarded  her  cuttings  as  a  miser  hoards  his  notes, 
but  never  could  find  the  rich  Sultana  cake  that  took 
nine  eggs  when  it  was  wanted,  but  only  the  plain  one 
costing  about  one-and-six.  Sometimes  Ailie  would,  in 
mischief,  offer  to  look  through  the  packet  for  recipes 
rich  and  rare  that  had  been  mentioned;  they  were 
certainly  there  (for  Bell  had  read  them  gloatingly  aloud 
when  she  cut  them  out),  but  Bell  would  never  let  her 
do  it,  always  saying,  "Tuts!  never  mind;  Dan  likes 
this  one  better,  and  the  other  may  be  very  nice  in  print 
but  it's  too  rich  to  be  wholesome,  and  it  costs  a  bonny 
penny.  You  can  read  in  the  papers  any  day  there's 
nothing  better  for  the  health  than  simple  dieting." 
So  it  was  that  Mr.  Dyce  had  some  monotony  in  his 
meals,  but  luckily  was  a  man  who  never  minded  that, 
liking  simple,  old  friends  best  in  his  bill  of  fare  as  in 
his  boots  and  coats  and  personal  acquaintances.  Some- 
times he  would  quiz  lier  about  her  favorite  literature, 
pretending  a  gourmet's  interest  for  her  first  attempt 
at  something  beyond  the  ordinary,  but  never  relished 
any  the  less  her  unvarying  famous  kale  and  simple 

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entremets,  keeping  his  highest  praise  for  her  remark- 
able breakfasts.  "I  don't  know  whether  you're  im- 
proving or  whether  I  am  getting  used  to  it,"  he  would 
say,  "but  that's  fish!  if  you  please,  Miss  Bell." 

"Try  another  scone,  Dan,"  she  would  urge,  to  hide 
the  confusion  that  his  praise  created.  "I'm  sure 
you're  hungry." 

"No,  not  hungry,"  would  he  reply,  "but,  thank 
Providence,  I'm  greedy — pass  the  plate." 

Bell  was  busy  at  her  cookery  lesson,  making  her 
cuttings  fill  the  part  of  the  book  that  was  still  to  buy, 
doing  all  she  could  to  make  Bud  see  how  noble  was  a 
proper  crimpy  paste,  though  her  lesson  was  cunningly 
designed  to  look  like  one  for  Kate  alone.  Her  sleeves 
were  rolled  up,  and  the  flour  was  flying,  when  a  rat- 
tat  came  to  the  door.  They  looked  up  from  their 
entrancing  occupation,  and  there,  in  front,  was  the 
castle  carriage! 

Miss  Bell  made  moan.  "Mercy  on  us!  That  '11  be 
Lady  Anne,  and  Ailie  out,  and  I  cannot  go  to  speak 
to  anybody,  for  I'm  such  a  ticket.  Run  to  the  door, 
dear,  and  take  her  into  the  parlor,  and  keep  her  there 
till  I  am  ready.  Don't  forget  to  say  '  My  lady' —  No, 
don't  say  'My  lady,'  for  the  Dyces  are  of  old,  and  as 
good  as  their  neighbors,  but  say  '  Your  ladyship ' — not 
too  often,  but  only  now  and  then,  to  let  her  see  you 
know  it." 

Bud  went  to  the  door  and  let  in  Lady  Anne,  leading 
her  composedly  to  the  parlor. 

"Aunt  Ailie's  out,"  she  said,  "and  Aunt  Bell  is  such 
a  ticket.  But  she's  coming  in  a  minute,  your — your — 
your — "  Bud  paused  for  a  second,  a  little  embar- 
rassed. "I  forget  which  it  was  I  was  to  say.  It  was 
either  'Your  ladyship'  or  'My  lady.'  You're  not 

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my  lady,  really,  and  you're  not  your  own,  hardly, 
seeing  you're  promised  to  Colonel  George.  Please  tell 
me  which  is  right,  Lady  Anne." 

"Who  told  you  it  was  Colonel  George,  my  dear?" 
asked  Lady  Anne,  sitting  down  on  the  proffered  chair 
and  putting  her  arms  around  the  child. 

"Oh,  it's  just  the  clash  of  the  parish,"  said  my  little 
Scot ,  who  once  was  Yankee .  ' '  And  everybody '  s  so  glad. ' ' 

"Are  they,  indeed?"  said  Lady  Anne,  blushing  in 
her  pleasure.  "That  is  exceedingly  kind  of  them.  I 
always  thought  our  own  people  the  nicest  and  kindest 
in  the  world." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Bud,  cheerfully.  "Every- 
body everywhere  is  just  what  one  is  one's  self — so  Aunt 
Ailie  says;  and  I  s'pose  it's  because  you're —  Oh,  I 
was  going  to  say  something  about  you,  but  I'll  let  you 
guess.  What  lovely  weather!  I  hope  your  papa  is 
well?  And  Mr.  Jones?" 

"Thank  you;  papa  is  very  well,  indeed,"  said  Lady 
Anne.  "And  Mr.  Jones — "  She  hung  upon  the  name 
with  some  dubiety. 

"The  coachman,  you  know,"  said  Bud,  placidly. 
"He's  a  perfectly  lovely  man,  so  fat  and  smiley.  He 
smiles  so  much  his  face  is  all  in  gathers.  So  kind  to 
his  horses,  too,  and  waves  his  whip  at  me  every  time 
he  passes.  Once  he  gave  me  a  ride  on  the  dickey;  it 
was  gorgeous.  Do  you  often  get  a  ride  on  the  dickey, 
Lady  Anne?" 

"Never!"  said  Lady  Anne,  with  a  clever  little  sigh. 
"Many  a  time  I  have  wished  I  could  get  one,  but  they 
always  kept  me  inside  the  carriage.  I  don't  seem  to 
have  had  much  luck  all  my  life  till — till — till  lately." 

"Did  Mr.  Jones  never  take  you  on  his  knee  and  tell 
you  the  story  of  the  Welsh  giants?" 

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"No,"  said  Lady  Anne,  solemnly  shaking  her  head. 

"Then  you're  too  big  now.  What  a  pity!  Seems  to 
me  there  isn't  such  a  much  in  being  a  big  L  lady,  after 
all.  I  thought  you'd  have  everything  of  the  very  best. 
You  have  no  idea  what  funny  ideas  we  had  in  America 
about  dukes  and  lords  and  ladies  in  the  old  country. 
Why,  I  expected  I'd  be  bound  to  hate  them  when  I 
got  here,  because  they'd  be  so  proud  and  haughty  and 
tyrannical.  But  I  don't  hate  them  one  little  bit;  they 
don't  do  anybody  any  harm  more'n  if  they  were  knock- 
about artistes.  I  suppose  the  queen  herself  'd  not 
crowd  a  body  off  the  sidewalk  if  you  met  her  there. 
She'd  be  just  as  apt  to  say,  'What  ho!  little  girl,  pip! 
pip!'  and  smile,  for  Auntie  Bell  is  always  reading  in 
the  newspapers  snappy  little  pars,  about  the  nice 
things  the  royal  family  do,  just  the  same  as  if  they 
weren't  royal  a  bit." 

"Yes,  I  sometimes  see  those  touching  domestic  in- 
cidents," said  her  ladyship.  "You  mean  such  things 
as  the  prince  helping  the  cripple  boy  to  find  his  crutch  ? 
They  make  me  almost  cry." 

"I  wouldn't  wet  a  lash,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Bud. 
"That's  just  the  press;  like  as  not  there's  nothing  be- 
hind it  but  the  agent  in  advance." 

"Agent  in  advance?"  said  Lady  Anne,  perplexed. 

"Yes.  He's  bound  to  boom  the  show  somehow — so 
Jim  Molyneux  said,  and  he  knew  most  things,  did  Jim." 

"You  wicked  republican!"  cried  her  ladyship,  hug- 
ging the  child  the  closer  to  her. 

"I'm  not  a  republican,"  protested  Bud.  "I'm 
truly  Scotch,  same  as  father  was  and  Auntie  Bell  is — 
that's  good  enough  for  me.  I'd  just  love  to  be  a  my 
lady  myself,  it  must  be  so  nice  and — and  fairy.  Why, 
it's  about  the  only  fairy  thing  left  anywhere,  I  guess. 

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There's  nothing  really  to  it;  it's  not  being  richer  nor 
powerfuller  nor  more  tyrannical  than  anybody  else, 
but  it's — it's — it's — I  dunno  'zactly  what  it  is,  but 
it's  something  —  it  —  it's  romantic,  that's  what  it  is, 
to  be  a  king  or  a  duke  or  a  my  lady.  The  fun  of  it 
is  all  inside  you,  like  poetry.  I  hope,  my  lady  Anne, 
you  'predate  your  privileges!  You  must  'predate 
your  privileges  always,  Auntie  Bell  says,  and  praise 
the  Lord  without  ceasing,  and  have  a  thankful  heart." 

"I  assure  you  I  do,"  replied  her  ladyship. 

"That's  right,"  said  Bud,  encouragingly.  "It's  sim- 
ply splendid  to  be  a  really  lady  with  a  big  L  with- 
out having  to  play  it  to  yourself.  I've  been  one  as 
Winifred  Wallace  quite  often;  with  Auntie  Ailie's  fur 
jacket  and  picture-hat  on  I'd  sit  and  sit,  and  feel  so 
composed  and  grand  in  the  rocker,  and  let  on  it  was 
Mr.  Jones's  carriage,  and  bow  sweetly  to  Footles,  who'd 
be  a  poor  man  passing  to  his  work,  and  mighty  proud 
to  have  me  notice  him.  I'd  be  sort  of  haughty  but  not 
'bominable  haughty,  cause  Auntie  Bell  says  there's 
nothing  beats  a  humble  and  a  contrite  heart.  But 
then,  you  see,  something  would  happen  to  spoil  every- 
thing :  Kate  would  laugh,  or  Auntie  Bell  would  pop 
in  and  cry:  'Mercy  on  me,  child,  play-acting  again! 
Put  away  that  jacket  instantly.'  Then  I'd  know  I 
was  only  letting  on  to  be  a  really  lady ;  but  with  you  it's 
different — all  the  time  you're  It.  Auntie  Bell  says  so, 
and  she  knows  everything." 

"It  really  looks  as  if  she  did,"  said  her  ladyship, 
"for  I've  called  to  see  her  to-day  about  a  sailor." 

"A  sailor!"  Bud  exclaimed,  with  wild  surmise. 

"Yes.  He  wants  to  be  captain  of  my  yacht,  and 
he  refers  me  to  Miss  Dyce,  for  all  the  world  as  if  he, 
were  a  housemaid." 

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"I'm  so  glad,"  cried  Bud,  "for  it  was  I  who  advised 
him  to,  and  I'm — I'm  the  referee." 

"You?" 

"Yes;  it  was  Kate's  letter,  and  she — and  we — and 
I  said  there  was  a  rumor  you  wanted  a  captain,  and 
he  should  apply,  saying  if  you  wanted  to  know  just 
what  a  clean,  good,  brave  sailor  he  was  you  should 
ask  Kate  MacNeill  or  Miss  Dyce,  and  I'm  the  Miss 
Dyce  this  time,  and  you're — why,  you're  really  visit- 
ing me!" 

Lady  Anne  laughed.  "Really,  Miss  Lennox,"  she 
said,  "you're  a  wonderful  diplomatist.  I  must  get 
the  Earl  to  put  you  in  the  service.  I  believe  there's 
a  pretty  decent  salary  goes  to  our  representative  in  the 
United  States." 

"But  don't  laugh  at  me,  Lady  Anne,"  pleaded  Bud, 
earnestly.  "I'm  dre'ffle  set  on  having  Charles  off  the 
cargo-boats,  where  he's  thrown  away.  You  don't 
know  how  Kate  loves  him,  and  she  hasn't  seen  him — 
not  for  years  and  years.  You  know  yourself  what 
it  is  to  be  so  far  away  from  anybody  you  love.  He'd 
just  fit  your  yacht  like  a  glove — he's  so  educated, 
having  been  on  the  yachts  and  with  the  gentry  round 
the  world.  He's  got  everything  nice  about  him  you'd 
look  for  in  a  sailor — big,  brown  eyes,  so  beautiful  there's 
only  Gaelic  words  I  don't  know,  but  that  sound  like 
somebody  breaking  glass,  to  describe  how  sweet  they 
are.  And  the  whitest  teeth!  When  he  walks,  he 
walks  so  straight  and  hits  the  ground  so  hard  you'd 
think  he  owned  the  land." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Lady  Anne,  "that  you 
couldn't  be  more  enthusiastic  about  your  protege  if 
you  loved  him  yourself." 

"So  I  do,"  said  Bud,  with  the  utmost  frankness. 
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"But  there's  really  nothing  between  us.  He's  meant 
for  Kate.  She's  got  heaps  of  beaux,  but  he's  her 
steady.  I  gave  him  up  to  her  for  good  on  Hallowe'en, 
and  she's  so  happy." 

Bell  had  thrown  off  her  cooking-apron  and  cleaned 
her  hands,  and  ran  up  the  stairs  to  see  that  her  hair 
was  trim,  for,  though  she  loved  a  lady  for  the  sake  of 
Scotland's  history,  she  someway  felt  in  the  presence 
of  Lady  Anne  the  awe  she  had  as  a  child  for  Barbara 
Mushet.  That  Ailie  in  such  company  should  be,  on 
the  other  hand,  so  composed,  and  sometimes  even 
comical,  was  a  marvel  she  never  could  get  over.  "I 
never  feared  the  face  of  earl  or  man,"  she  would  say, 
"but  I'm  scared  for  a  titled  lady." 

When  she  came  down  to  the  parlor  the  visitor  was 
rising  to  go. 

"Oh,  Miss  Dyce,"  said  she,  "I'm  so  glad  to  see 
you,  though  my  visit  this  time's  really  to  Miss  Len- 
nox. I  wished  to  consult  her  about  a  captain  for  my 
little  yacht." 

"Miss  Lennox!"  exclaimed  Miss  Bell,  shaking  hands, 
and  with  a  look  of  apprehension  at  her  amazing  niece. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Anne;  "she  has  recommended  a 
man  who  seems  in  all  respects  quite  suitable,  if  he  hap- 
pens to  know  a  little  about  sailing,  and  I'm  going  to 
write  to  him  to  come  and  see  me." 

At  that,  I  must  confess  it,  Lennox  for  once  forgot 
her  manners  and  darted  from  the  parlor  to  tell  Kate 
the  glorious  news. 

"Kate,  you  randy!"  she  cried,  bursting  into  the 
kitchen,  "I've  fixed  it  up  for  Charles;  he's  to  be  the 
captain." 

The  servant  danced  on  the  floor  in  a  speechless  trans- 
port, and  Bud  danced,  too. 

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CHAPTER  XXI 

TOO  slow,  far  too  slow,  passed  the  lengthening 
days.  Kate  was  bedded  by  nine  to  make  them 
shorter  by  an  hour  or  two,  but  what  she  took  from 
the  foot  of  the  day  she  tacked  to  the  head  of  it,  as 
Paddy  in  the  story  eked  his  blanket,  and  she  was 
up  in  the  mornings  long  before  Wanton  Wully  rang 
the  six-hours'  bell.  The  elder  Dyces — saving  Ailie, 
who  knew  all  about  it,  hearing  it  from  Bud  in  passion- 
ate whispers  as  they  lay  together  in  one  bed  in  the 
brightening  morns  of  May  —  might  think  summer's 
coming  was  what  made  the  household  glad,  Kate  sing 
like  the  laverock,  and  Lennox  so  happy  and  so  good, 
but  it  was  the  thought  of  Charles.  "You've  surely 
taken  a  desperate  fancy  for  Prince  Charlie  songs," 
said  Miss  Bell  to  Bud  and  the  maid  of  Colonsay.  "Is 
there  not  another  ditty  in  the  ballant  ?"  and  they  would 
glance  at  each  other  guiltily,  but  never  let  on. 

"Come  o'er  the  stream,  Charlie,  dear  Charlie,  brave  Charlie, 
Come  o'er  the  stream,  Charlie,  and  I'll  be  Maclean." 

Bud  composed  that  one  in  a  jiffy,  sitting  one  day 
at  the  kitchen  window,  and  of  all  the  noble  Jacobite 
measures  Kate  liked  it  best,  "it  was  so  clever,  and  so 
desperate  like  the  thing!"  Such  a  daft  disease  is  love! 
To  the  woman  whose  recollection  of  the  mariner  was 
got  from  olden  Sabbath  walks  'tween  churches  in  the 
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windy  isle,  among  the  mossy  tombs,  and  to  Bud,  who 
had  never  seen  him,  but  had  made  for  herself  a  portrait 
blent  of  the  youth  so  gay  and  gallant  Kate  described, 
and  of  George  Sibley  Purser,  and  of  dark,  ear-ringed 
men  of  the  sea  that  in  "The  Tempest"  cry,  "Heigh, 
my  hearts!  cheerily,  cheerily,  cheerily,  my  hearts!  yare, 
yare,"  the  prospect  of  his  presence  was  a  giddy  joy. 

And  after  all  the  rascal  came  without  warning,  to 
be  for  a  day  and  a  night  within  sound  of  Kate's  min- 
strelsy without  her  knowing  it,  for  he  lodged,  an  ardent 
but  uncertain  man,  on  the  other  side  of  the  garden 
wall,  little  thinking  himself  the  cause  and  object  of 
these  musical  mornings.  Bud  found  him  out — that 
clever  one!  who  was  surely  come  from  America  to  set 
all  the  Old  World  right — she  found  him  at  the  launch- 
ing of  the  Wave. 

Lady  Anne's  yacht  dozed  like  a  hedgehog  under 
leaves  through  the  winter  months  below  the  beeches 
on  what  we  call  the  hard — on  the  bank  of  the  river 
under  Jocka's  house,  where  the  water's  brackish,  and 
the  launching  of  her  was  always  of  the  nature  of  a 
festival,  for  the  Earl's  men  were  there,  John  Taggart's 
band,  with  "A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave"  between  each 
passage  of  the  jar  of  old  Tom  Watson's  home-made 
ale — not  tipsy  lads  but  jovial,  and  even  the  children 
of  the  schools,  for  it  happened  on  a  Saturday. 

Bud  and  Footles  went  with  each  other  and  the  rest 
of  the  bairns,  unknown  to  their  people,  for  in  advent- 
ures such  as  these  the  child  delighted,  and  was  wisely 
never  interdicted. 

The  man  who  directed  the  launch  was  a  stranger  in 
a  foreign  -  looking,  soft  slouch  hat  —  Charles  plain  to 
identify  in  every  feature,  in  the  big,  brown,  searching 
eyes  that  only  Gaelic  could  do  justice  to,  and  his  walk 

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so  steeve  and  steady,  his  lovely  beard,  his  tread  on  the 
hard  as  if  he  owned  the  land,  his  voice  on  the  deck  as 
if  he  were  the  master  of  the  sea.  She  stood  apart  and 
watched  him,  fascinated,  and  could  not  leave  even 
when  the  work  was  done  and  the  band  was  home- 
returning,  charming  the  road  round  the  bay  with 
"Peggy  Baxter's  Quickstep."  He  saw  her  lingering, 
smiled  on  her,  and  beckoned  on  her  to  cross  the  gang- 
way that  led  to  the  yacht  from  the  little  jetty. 

"Well,  wee  lady,"  said  he,  with  one  big  hand  on 
her  head  and  another  on  the  dog,  "is  this  the  first  of 
my  crew  at  a  quay-head  jump  ?  Sign  on  at  once  and 
I'll  make  a  sailor  of  you." 

"Oh,  please,"  said  she,  looking  up  in  his  face,  too 
anxious  to  enter  into  his  humor,  "are  you  our  Kate's 
Charles?" 

"Kate!"  said  he,  reflecting,  with  a  hand  in  his  beard, 
through  which  his  white  teeth  shone.  "There's  such 
a  wheen  of  Kates  here  and  there,  and  all  of  them  fine, 
fine  gyurls!  Still-and-on,  if  yours  is  like  most  of  her 
name  that  I'm  acquaint  with,  I'm  the  very  man  for 
her;  and  my  name,  indeed,  is  what  you  might  be  call- 
ing Charles.  In  fact" — in  a  burst  of  confidence,  seat- 
ing himself  on  a  water-breaker — "my  Christian  name 
is  Charles — Charlie,  for  short,  among  the  gentry.  You 
are  not  speaking,  by  any  chance,  of  one  called  Kate 
MacNeill?"  he  added,  showing  some  red  in  the  tan  of 
his  countenance. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Bud,  reproachfully.  "Oh, 
men!  men!  As  if  there  could  be  any  other!  I  hope 
to  goodness  you  love  her  same  as  you  said  you  did,  and 
haven't  been — been  carrying  on  with  any  other  Kates 
for  a  diversion.  I'm  Lennox  Dyce.  Your  Kate  stays 
with  me  and  Uncle  Dan,  and  Auntie  Bell  and  Auntie 

207 


BUD 

Ailie,  and  this  sweet  little  dog  by  the  name  of  Footles. 
She's  so  jolly!  My,  won't  she  be  tickled  to  know 
you've  come!  And  —  and  how's  the  world,  Captain 
Charles?" 

"The  world?"  he  said,  aback,  looking  at  her  curious- 
ly as  she  seated  herself  beside  him  on  a  hatch. 

"Yes,  the  world,  you  know — the  places  you  were  in," 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  that  seemed  to  mean  the  uni- 
verse. 

" '  Edinburgh,  Leith, 

Portobello,  Musselburgh,  and  Dalkeith?' 

— No,  that's  Kate's  favorite  geography  lesson,  'cause 
she  can  sing  it.  I  mean  Rotterdam  and  Santander 
and  Bilbao — all  the  lovely  places  on  the  map  where  a 
letter  takes  four  days  and  a  twopence-ha'penny  stamp, 
and  's  mighty  apt  to  smell  of  rope." 

"Oh,  them!"  said  he,  with  the  warmth  of  recollec- 
tion; "they're  not  so  bad — in  fact,  they're  just  Ai. 
It's  the  like  of  there  you  see  life  and  spend  the  money." 

"Have  you  been  in  Italy?"  asked  Bud.  "I'd  love 
to  see  that  old  Italy — for  the  sake  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
you  know,  and  my  dear,  dear  Portia." 

"7  know,"  said  Charles.  "Allow  me!  Perfect  beau- 
ties, all  fine,  fine  gyurls;  but  I  don't  think  very  much 
of  dagoes.  I  have  slept  in  their  sailors'  homes,  and 
never  hear  Italy  mentioned  but  I  feel  I  want  to  scratch 
myself." 

"Dagoes!"  cried  Bud;  "that's  what  Jim  called  them. 
Have  you  been  in  America?" 

"Have  I  been  in  America?  I  should  think  I  have," 
said  he,  emphatically.  "The  Lakes.  It's  yonder  you  get 
value — two  dollars  a  day  and  everywhere  respected  like 
a  gentleman.  Men's  not  mice  out  yonder  in  America." 

208 


BUD 

"Then  you  maybe  have  been  in  Chicago?"  cried 
Bud,  her  face  filled  with  a  happy  expectation  as  she 
pressed  the  dog  in  her  arms  till  its  fringe  mixed  with 
her  own  wild  curls. 

"Chicago?"  said  the  Captain.  "Allow  me!  Many 
a  time.  You'll  maybe  not  believe  it,  but  it  was  there 
I  bought  this  hat." 

"Oh!"  cried  Bud,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
speechless  for  a  moment,  "I — -I — -could  just  hug  that 
hat.  Won't  you  please  let  me — let  me  pat  it?" 

"Pat  away,"  said  Captain  Charles,  laughing,  and 
took  it  off  with  the  sweep  of  a  cavalier  that  was  in 
itself  a  compliment.  "You  know  yon  place — Chicago  ?" 
he  asked,  as  she  patted  his  headgear  fondly  and  re- 
turned it  to  him.  For  a  little  her  mind  was  far  away 
from  the  deck  of  Lady  Anne's  yacht,  her  eyes  on  the 
ripple  of  the  tide,  her  nostrils  full,  and  her  little  bosom 
heaving. 

"You  were  there?"  he  asked  again. 

"Chicago's  where  I  lived,"  she  said.  "That  was 
mother's  place,"  and  into  his  ear  she  poured  a  sudden 
flood  of  reminiscence — of  her  father  and  mother,  and 
the  travelling  days  and  lodging-houses,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Molyneux,  and  the  graves  in  the  far-off  cemetery. 
The  very  thought  of  them  all  made  her  again  Ameri- 
can in  accent  and  in  phrase.  He  listened,  understand- 
ing, feeling  the  vexation  of  that  far-sundering  by  the 
sea  as  only  a  sailor  can,  and  clapped  her  on  the  shoulder, 
and  looking  at  him  she  saw  that  in  his  eyes  which  made 
her  love  him  more  than  ever.  "Oh,  my!"  she  said, 
bravely,  "here  I'm  talking  away  to  you  about  myself 
and  I'm  no  more  account  than  a  rabbit  under  these 
present  circumstances,  Captain  Charles,  and  all  the 
time  you're  just  pining  to  know  all  about  your  Kate." 

209 


BUD 

The  Captain  tugged  his  beard  and  reddened  again. 
"A  fine,  fine  gyurl!"  said  he.  "I  hope — I  hope  she's 
pretty  well." 

"She's  fine,"  said  Bud,  nodding  her  head  gravely. 
"You  bet  Kate  can  walk  now  without  taking  hold. 
Why,  there's  never  anything  wrong  with  her  'cepting 
now  and  then  the  croodles,  and  they're  not  anything 
lingering." 

' '  There  was  a  kind  of  a  rumor  that  she  was  at  times 
a  trifle  delicate,"  said  Charles.  "In  fact,  it  was  her- 
self who  told  me,  in  her  letters." 

Bud  blushed.  This  was  one  of  the  few  details  of 
her  correspondence  on  which  she  and  Kate  had  dif- 
fered. It  had  been  her  idea  that  an  invalidish  hint 
a£  intervals  produced  a  nice  and  tender  solicitude  in 
the  roving  sailor,  and  she  had,  at  times,  credited  the 
maid  with  some  of  Mrs.  Molyneux's  old  complaints,  a 
little  modified  and  more  romantic,  though  Kate  her- 
self maintained  that  illness  in  a  woman  under  eighty 
was  looked  upon  as  anything  but  natural  or  interesting 
in  Colonsay. 

"It  was  nothing  but — but  love,"  she  said  now,  con- 
fronted with  the  consequence  of  her  imaginative  cun- 
ning. "You  know  what  love  is,  Captain  Charles!  A 
powerfully  weakening  thing,  though  I  don't  think  it 
would  hurt  anybody  if  they  wouldn't  take  it  so  much 
to  heart." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it's  only — only  what  you  mention," 
said  Charles,  much  relieved.  "I  thought  it  might  be 
something  inward,  and  that  maybe  she  was  working 
too  hard  at  her  education." 

"Oh,  she's  not  taking  her  education  so  bad  as  all 
that,"  Bud  assured  him.  "She  isn't  wasting  to  a 
shadow  sitting  up  nights  with  a  wet  towel  on  her  head 

210 


BUD 

soaking  in  the  poets  and  figuring  sums.  All  she 
wanted  was  to  be  sort  of  middling  smart,  but  nothing 
gaudy." 

Captain  Charles  looked  sideways  keenly  at  the  child 
as  she  sat  beside  him,  half  afraid  himself  of  the  jrony 
he  had  experienced  among  her  countrymen,  but  saw 
it  was  not  here.  Indeed,  it  never  was  in  Lennox  Dyce, 
for  all  her  days  she  had  the  sweet,  engaging  self -uncon- 
sciousness no  training  can  command:  frankness,  fear- 
lessness, and  respect  for  all  her  fellows — the  gifts  that 
will  never  fail  to  make  the  proper  friends.  She  talked 
so  composedly  that  he  was  compelled  to  frankness  him- 
self on  a  subject  no  money  could  have  made  him 
speak  about  to  any  one  a  week  ago. 

"Between  you  and  me  and  the  mast,"  said  he,  "I'm 
feared  Kate  has  got  far  too  clever  for  the  like  of  me, 
and  that's  the  way  I  have  not  called  on  her." 

"Then  you'd  best  look  pretty  spry,"  said  Bud, 
pointing  a  monitory  finger  at  him,  "for  there's  beaux 
all  over  the  place  that's  wearing  their  Sunday  clothes 
week-days,  and  washing  their  faces  night  and  morning, 
hankering  to  tag  on  to  her,  and  she'll  maybe  tire  of 
standing  out  in  the  cold  for  you.  I  wouldn't  be 
skeered,  Cap',  if  I  was  you;  she's  not  too  clever  for 
or 'nary  use;  she's  nicer  than  ever  she  was  that  time 
you  used  to  walk  with  her  in  Colonsay."  Bud  was 
beginning  to  be  alarmed  at  the  misgivings  to  which 
her  own  imaginings  had  given  rise. 

"If  you  saw  her  letters,"  said  Charles,  gloomily. 
"Poetry  and  foreign  princes.  One  of  them  great  at 
the  dancing!  He  kissed  her  hand.  He  would  never 
have  ventured  a  thing  like  that  if  she  hadn't  given 
him  encouragement." 

"Just  diversion,"  said  Bud,  consolingly.  "She  was 
211 


BUD 

only — she  was  only  putting  by  the  time ;  and  she  often 
says  she'll  only  marry  for  her  own  conveniency,  and 
the  man  for  her  is — well,  you  know,  Captain  Charles.'* 

"There  was  a  Russian  army  officer,"  proceeded  the 
seanjan,  still  suffering  a  jealous  doubt. 

"But  he's  dead.  He's  deader  'n  canned  beans.  Mr. 
Wanton  gied  him  —  gied  him  the  BAGGONET.  There 
wasn't  really  anything  in  it,  anyway.  Kate  didn't 
care  for  him  the  tiniest  bit,  and  I  guess  it  was  a  great 
relief." 

"Then  she's  learning  the  piano,"  said  the  Captain; 
"that's  not  like  a  working-gyurl.  And  she  talked  in 
one  of  her  letters  about  sitting  on  Uncle  Dan's  knee." 

Bud  dropped  the  dog  at  her  feet  and  burst  into 
laughter;  in  that  instance  she  had  certainly  badly 
jumbled  the  identities. 

"It's  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  said  the  Captain,  tug- 
ging his  beard.  "It's  not  at  all  becoming  in  a  decent 
gyurl;  and  it's  not  like  the  Kate  I  knew  in  Colonsay." 

Bud  saw  the  time  had  come  for  a  full  confession. 

"Captain  Charles,"  she  said,  when  she  recovered 
herself,  "it — it  wasn't  Kate  said  that  at  all;  it  was 
another  girl  called  Winifred  Wallace.  You  see,  Kate 
is  always  so  busy  doing  useful  things — such  soup!  and 
— and  a-washing  every  Monday,  and  taking  her  educa- 
tion, and  the  pens  were  all  so  dev — so — so  stupid,  that 
she  simply  had  to  get  some  one  to  help  her  write  those 
letters;  and  that's  why  Winifred  Wallace  gave  a  hand 
and  messed  things  up  a  bit,  I  guess.  Where  the  letters 
talked  solemn  sense  about  the  weather  and  the  bad 
fishing  and  bits  about  Oronsay,  and  where  they  told 
you  to  be  sure  and  change  your  stockings  when  you 
came  down -stairs  from  the  mast  out  the  wet,  and 
where  they  said  you  were  the  very,  very  one  she  loved, 

212 


BUD 

that  was  Kate ;  but  when  there  was  a  lot  of  dinky  talk 
about  princes  and  Russian  army  officers  and  slabs  of 
poetry,  that  was  just  Winifred  Wallace  putting  on  lugs 
and  showing  off.  No,  it  wasn't  all  showing  off;  it  was 
because  she  kind  of  loved  you  herself.  You  see,  she 
didn't  have  any  beau  of  her  own,  Mr.  Charles,  and — 
and  she  thought  it  wouldn't  be  depriving  Kate  of  any- 
thing to  pretend,  for  Kate  said  there  was  no  depravity 
in  it." 

"Who's  Winifred  Wallace?"  asked  the  surprised 
sailor. 

"I'm  all  the  Winifred  Wallace  there  is,"  said  Bud, 
penitently.  "It's  my  poetry  name — it's  my  other  me. 
I  can  do  a  heap  of  things  when  I'm  Winifred  I  can't  do 
when  I'm  plain  Bud,  or  else  I'd  laugh  at  myself  enough 
to  hurt,  I'm  so  mad.  Are  you  angry,  Mr.  Charles?" 

"Och!  just  Charles  to  you,"  said  the  sailor.  "Never 
heed  the  honors.  I'm  not  angry  a  bit.  Allow  me! 
In  fact,  I'm  glad  to  find  the  prince  and  the  piano  and 
the  poetry  were  all  nonsense." 

"I  thought  that  poetry  pretty  middling  myself," 
admitted  Bud,  but  in  a  hesitating  way  that  made  her 
look  very  guilty. 

"The  poetry,"  said  he,  quickly,  "was  splendid. 
There  was  nothing  wrong  with  it  that  I  could  see ;  but 
I'm  glad  it  wasn't  Kate's — for  she's  a  fine,  fine  gyurl, 
and  brought  up  most  respectable." 

"Yes,"  said  Bud,  "she's  better  'n  any  poetry.  You 
must  feel  gay  because  you  are  going  to  marry  her." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  her  marrying  me.  She  maybe 
wouldn't  have  me." 

"But  she  can't  help  it!"  cried  Bud.  "She's  bound 
to,  for  the  witch-lady  fixed  it  on  Hallowe'en.  Only, 
I  hope  you  won't  marry  her  for  years  and  years.  Why, 

213 


BUD 

Auntie  Bell  'd  go  crazy  if  you  took  away  our  Kate ;  for 
good  girls  ain't  so  easy  to  get  nowadays  as  they  used 
to  be  when  they  had  three  pound  ten  in  the  half-year, 
and  nailed  their  trunks  down  to  the  floor  of  a  new  place 
when  they  got  it,  for  fear  they  might  be  bounced.  I'd 
be  vexed  I  helped  do  anything  if  you  married  her  for  a 
long  while.  Besides,  you'd  be  sorry  yourself,  for  her 
education  is  not  quite  done;  she's  only  up  to  compound 
multiplication  and  the  Tudor  kings.  You'd  just  be 
sick  sorry." 

"Would  I?" 

"Course  you  would!  That's  love.  Before  one  mar- 
ries it's  hunkydory — it's  fairy  all  the  time — but  after 
that  it's  the  same  old  face  at  breakfast,  Mr.  Cleland 
says,  and  simply  putting  up  with  each  other.  Oh, 
love's  a  wonderful  thing,  Charles;  it's  the  Great  Thing; 
but  sometimes  I  say,  'Give  me  Uncle  Dan!'  Promise 
you'll  not  go  marrying  Kate  right  off." 

The  sailor  roared  with  laughter.  "Lord!"  said  he, 
"if  I  wait  too  long  I'll  be  wanting  to  marry  yourself, 
for  you're  a  dangerous  gyurl." 

"But  I'm  never  going  to  marry,"  said  Bud.  "I 
want  to  go  right  on  loving  everybody,  and  don't  yearn 
for  any  particular  man  tagging  on  to  me." 

"I  never  heard  so  much  about  love  in  English  all 
my  life,"  said  Charles,  "though  it's  common  enough 
and  quite  respectable  in  Gaelic.  Do  you — do  you  love 
myself?" 

"Course  I  do!"  said  Bud,  cuddling  Footles. 

"Then,"  said  he,  firmly,  "the  sooner  I  sign  on  with 
Kate  the  better,  for  you're  a  dangerous  gyurl." 

So  they  went  down  the  road  together,  planning  ways 
of  early  foregatherings  with  Kate,  and  you  may  be 
sure  Bud's  way  was  cunningest. 

214 


CHAPTER   XXII 

WHEN  Kate  that  afternoon  was  told  her  hour  was 
come,  and  that  to-morrow  she  must  meet  her 
destined  mariner,  she  fell  into  a  chair,  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head,  and  cried  and  laughed  horribly  turn 
about — the  victim  of  hysteria  that  was  half  from  fear 
and  half  from  a  bliss  too  deep  and  unexpected. 

"Mercy  on  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "Now  he'll  find 
out  everything,  and  what  a  stupid  one  I  am.  All  my 
education's  clean  gone  out  of  my  head;  I'm  sure  I 
couldn't  spell  an  article.  I  canna  even  mind  the  ninth 
commandment,  let  alone  the  Reasons  Annexed,  and 
as  for  grammar,  whether  it's  'Give  the  book  to  Bud 
and  me,'  or  'Give  the  book  to  Bud  and  I,'  is  more  than 
I  could  tell  you  if  my  very  life  depended  on  it.  Oh, 
Lennox,  now  we're  going  to  catch  it!  Are  you  cer- 
tain sure  he  said  to-morrow?" 

Bud  gazed  at  her  disdainfully  and  stamped  her  foot. 

' '  Stop  that ,  Kate  MacNeill ! ' '  she  commanded.  ' '  You 
mustn't  act  so  silly.  He's  as  skeered  of  you  as  you  can 
be  of  him.  He'd  have  been  here  Friday  before  the 
morning  milk  if  he  didn't  think  you'd  be  the  sort  to 
back  him  into  a  corner  and  ask  him  questions  about 
ancient  Greece  and  Rome.  Seems  to  me  love  makes 
some  folk  idiotic;  land's  sake!  I'm  mighty  glad  it  al- 
ways leaves  me  calm  as  a  plate  of  pumpkin-pie." 

"Is — is — he  looking  tremendously  genteel  and  well- 
215 


BUD 

put-on?"  asked  the  maid  of  Colonsay,  with  anxious 
lines  on  her  forehead.  "Is  he — is  he  as  nice  as  I  said 
he  was?" 

"He  was  everything  you  said — except  the  Gaelic.  1 
knew  he  couldn't  be  so  bad  as  that  sounded  that  you 
said  about  his  eyes.  I — I  never  saw  a  more  becoming 
man.  If  I  had  known  just  how  noble  he  looked,  I'd 
have  sent  him  stacks  of  poetry,"  whereat  Kate  moaned 
again,  rocked  herself  in  her  chair  most  piteously,  and 
swore  she  could  never  have  the  impudence  to  see  him 
till  she  had  her  new  frock  from  the  dressmaker's. 

"He'll  be  thinking  I'm  refined  and  quite  the  lady," 
she  said,  "and  I'm  just  the  same  plain  Kate  I  was  in 
Colonsay,  and  him  a  regular  captain!  It  was  all  your 
fault,  with  your  fancy  letters.  Oh,  Lennox  Dyce,  I 
think  I  hate  you,  just — lend  me  your  hanky;  mine's  all 
wet  with  greeting." 

"If  you  weren't  so  big  and  temper  wasn't  sinful, 
I'd  shake  you!"  said  Bud,  producing  her  handkerchief. 
"You  were  just  on  your  last  legs  for  a  sailor,  and  you'd 
never  have  put  a  hand  on  one  if  I  didn't  write  these 
letters.  And  now,  when  the  sweetest  sailor  in  the 
land  is  brought  to  your  door-step,  you  don't  'predate 
your  privileges  and  have  a  grateful  heart,  but  turn 
round  and  yelp  at  me.  I  tell  you,  Kate  MacNeill, 
sailors  are  mighty  scarce  and  sassy  in  a  little  place 
like  this,  and  none  too  easy  picked  up,  and  'stead  of 
sitting  there,  with  a  smut  on  your  nose  and  tide- 
marks  on  your  eyebrows,  mourning,  you'd  best  arise 
and  shine,  or  somebody  with  their  wits  about  them  '11 
snap  him  up.  I'd  do  it  myself  if  it  wouldn't  be  not 
honorable  to  you." 

"Oh,  if  I  just  had  another  week  or  two's  geography!" 
said  Kate,  dolefully. 

216 


BUD 

Bud  had  to  laugh — she  could  not  help  herself;  and 
the  more  she  laughed,  the  more  tragic  grew  the  ser- 
vant's face. 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Bud,  "that  I've  got  to  run 
this  loving  business  all  along  the  line;  you  don't  know 
the  least  thing  about  it  after  g-o,  go.  Why,  Kate,  I'm 
telling  you  Charles  is  afraid  of  you  more  than  you  are 
of  him.  He  thought  you'd  be  that  educated  you'd 
wear  specs,  and  stand  quite  stiff  talking  poetry  all  the 
time,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  every  dinky  bit  in  these 
letters  were  written  by  me." 

"Then  that's  worse!"  cried  the  servant,  more  dis- 
tressed than  ever.  "For  he'll  think  I  canna  write  my- 
self, and  I  can  write  like  fury  if  you  only  give  me  a 
decent  pen  and  don't  bother  me." 

"No  fears!"  said  Bud;  "I  made  that  all  right.  I  said 
you  were  too  busy  housekeeping,  and  I  guess  it's  more 
a  housekeeper  than  a  school-marm  Charles  needs. 
Anyhow,  he's  so  much  in  love  with  you,  he'd  marry 
you  if  you  were  a  deaf-mute;  he's  plumb  head  over 
heels,  and  it's  up  to  you,  as  a  sensible  girl,  not  to  con- 
ceal that  you  like  him  some  yourself." 

"I'll  not  know  what  to  say  to  him,"  said  Kate,  "and 
he  always  was  so  clever;  half  the  time  I  couldna  under- 
stand him  if  it  wasn't  for  his  eyes." 

"Well,  he'll  know  what  to  say  to  you,  I  guess,  if 
all  the  signs  are  right.  Charles  is  not  so  shy  as  all 
that — love-making  is  where  he  lives,  and  he  made  goo- 
goo  eyes  at  myself  without  an  introduction.  You'd 
fancy,  to  hear  you,  he  was  a  school  inspector,  and  he's 
only  just  an  or'nary  lover  thinking  of  the  happy  days 
you  used  to  have  in  Colonsay.  If  I  was  you  I'd  not 
let  on  I  was  anything  but  what  I  really  was;  I'd  be 
natural;  yes,  that's  what  I'd  be,  for  being  natural's 

217 


BUD 

the  deadliest  thing  below  the  canopy  to  make  folk 
love  you.  Don't  pretend,  but  just  be  the  same  Kate 
MaeNeill  to  him  you  are  to  me.  Just  you  listen  to  him, 
and  now  and  then  look  at  him,  and  don't  think  of  a 
darned  thing — I  mean  don't  think  of  a  blessed  thing 
but  how  nice  he  is,  and  he'll  be  so  pleased  and  so  con- 
tent he'll  not  even  ask  you  to  spell  cat." 

"Content!"  cried  Kate,  with  conviction.  "Not  him! 
Fine  I  ken  him!  He'll  want  to  kiss  me,  as  sure  as 
God's  in  heaven — beg  your  pardon." 

"I  expect  that's  not  a  thing  you  should  say  to  me," 
said  Bud,  blushing  deeply. 

"But  I  begged  your  pardon,"  said  the  maid. 

"I  don't  mean  that  about  God  in  heaven,  that's 
right — so  He  is,  or  where  would  we  be  ? — what  I  meant 
was  about  the  kissing.  I'm  old  enough  for  love,  but 
I'm  not  old  enough  for  you  to  be  talking  to  me  about 
kissing,  I  guess  Auntie  Ailie  wouldn't  like  to  have  you 
talk  to  me  about  a  thing  like  that,  and  Auntie  Bell, 
she'd  be  furious — it's  too  advanced." 

"What  time  am  I  to  see  him?"  asked  Kate. 

"In  the  morning.  If  you  go  out  to  the  garden  just 
after  breakfast,  and  whistle,  he'll  look  over  the  wall." 

' '  The  morning ! ' '  cried  the  maid,  aghast.  ' '  I  couldn't 
face  him  in  the  morning.  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing?  Now  you  have  gone  away  and  spoiled  every- 
thing! I  could  hardly  have  all  my  wits  about  me 
even  if  it  was  only  gloaming." 

Bud  sighed  despairingly.  "Oh,  you  don't  understand, 
Kate,"  said  she.  "He  wanted  it  to  be  the  evening, 
too,  but  I  said  you  weren't  a  miserable  pair  of  owls,  and 
the  best  time  for  anything  is  the  morning.  Uncle  Dan 
says  the  first  half -hour  in  the  morning  is  worth  three 
hours  at  any  other  time  of  the  day,  for  when  you've 

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said  your  prayers,  and  had  a  good  bath,  and  a  clean 
shave,  and  vour  boots  new  on — no  slippers  nor  slithery 
dressing-gowns — the  peace  of  God  and — and — and  the 
assurance  of  strength  and  righteousness  descends  upon 
you  sd  that  you — you — you  can  tackle  wild-cats.  I 
feel  so  brash  and  brave  myself  in  the  morning  I  could 
skip  the  hills  like  a  goat.  It's  simply  got  to  be  the 
morning,  Kate  MacNeill.  That's  when  you  look  your 
very  best,  if  you.  care  to  take  a  little  trouble,  and  don't 
simply  just  slouch  through,  and  I'm  set  on  having 
you  see  him  first  time  over  the  garden  wall.  That's 
the  only  way  to  fix  the  thing  up  romantic,  seeing  we 
haven't  any  balcony.  You'll  go  out  and  stand  against 
the  blossom  of  the  cherry-tree,  and  hold  a  basket  of 
flowers  and  parsley,  and  when  he  peeks  over  and  sees 
you  looming  out  the  picture,  I  tell  you  he'll  be  tickled 
to  death.  That's  the  way  Shakespeare  'd  fix  it,  and 
he  knew." 

"I  don't  think  much  of  Shakespeare,"  said  Kate. 
"Fancy  yon  Igoa!" 

"lago,  you  mean.     Well,  what  about  him?" 
"The  wickedness  of  him;  such  a  lot  of  lies!" 
"Pooh!"  said  Bud.     "He  was  only  for  the  effect. 
Of  course  there  never  really  was  such  a  mean,  wicked 
man  as  that  lago — there  couldn't  be — but  Shakespeare 
made  him  just  so's  you'd  like  the  nice  folk  all  the  more 
by  thinking  what  they  might  have  been  if  God  had 
let  Himself  go." 

That  night  Kate  was  abed  by  eight.  Vainly  the 
town  cried  for  her — the  cheerful  passage  of  feet  on  the 
pavement,  and  a  tinkler  piper  at  the  Cross,  and  she 
knew  how  bright  was  the  street,  with  the  late-lit  win- 
dows of  the  shops,  and  how  intoxicating  was  the  atmos- 
phere of  Saturday  in  the  dark,  but  having  said  her  Lord's 

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Prayer  in  Gaelic,  and  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep" 
in  English,  she  covered  her  head  with  the  blankets  and 
thought  of  the  coming  day  with  joy  and  apprehension, 
until  she  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Bell  had  no  sooner  gone  up  to 
the  making  of  beds,  that  was  her  Sabbath  care  to  save 
the  servant-maid  -from  too  much  sin,  and  Ailie  to  her 
weekly  reading  with  the  invalid  Duncan  Gill,  than  Bud 
flew  into  the  kitchen  to  make  Kate  ready  for  her  tryst. 
Never  in  this  world  were  breakfast  dishes  sooner 
cleaned  and  dried  than  by  that  eager  pair;  no  sooner 
were  they  done  than  Kate  had  her  chest-lid  up,  and 
had  dived,  head  foremost,  among  her  Sunday  finery. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Bud.  "You're  not  going  to 
put  on  glad  rags,  are  you?"  For  out  there  came  a 
blue  gown,  fondled  tenderly. 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Kate.  "It's  either  that  or 
my  print  for  it,  and  a  print  wrapper  would  not  be  the 
thing  at  all  to  meet — meet  the  Captain  in;  he'll  be 
expecting  me  to  be  truly  refined." 

"I  think  he'd  like  the  wrapper  better,"  said  Bud, 
gravely.  "The  blue  gown's  very  nice — but  it's  not 
Kate,  somehow;  do  you  know,  I  think  it's  Auntie  Ailie 
up  to  about  the  waist,  and  the  banker's  cook  in  the 
lacey  bits  above  that,  and  it  don't  make  you  refined  a 
bit.  It's  not  what  you  put  on  that  makes  you  refined, 
it's  things  you  can't  take  off.  You  have  no  idea  how 
sweet  you  look  in  that  print,  Kate,  with  your  cap  and 
apron.  You  look  better  in  them  than  if  you  wore  the 
latest  yell  of  fashion.  I'd  want  to  marry  you  myself 
if  I  was  a  captain  and  saw  you  dressed  like  that;  but 
if  you  had  on  your  Sunday  gown  I'd — I'd  bite  my  lip 
and  go  home  and  ask  advice  from  mother." 

Kate  put  past  the  blue  gown,  not  very  willingly, 
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BUD 

but  she  had  learned  by  now  that  in  some  things  Bud 
had  better  judgment  than  herself.  She  washed  and 
dried  her  face  till  it  shone  like  a  polished  apple,  put 
on  Bud's  choice  of  a  cap  and  streamered  apron,  and 
was  about  to  take  a  generous  dash  of  Florida  Water 
when  she  found  her  hand  restrained. 

"I'd  have  no  scent,"  said  Bud.  "I  like  scent  my- 
self, some,  and  I  just  dote  on  our  Florida  Water,  but 
Auntie  Ailie  says  the  scent  of  clean  water,  sun,  and 
air,  is  the  sweetest  a  body  can  have  about  one,  and 
any  other  kind's  as  rude  as  Keating's  Powder." 

"He'll  be  expecting  the  Florida  Water,"  said  Kate, 
"seeing  that  it  was  himself  that  sent  it." 

"It  don't  amount  to  a  hill  of  beans,"  said  Bud; 
"you  can  wear  our  locket,  and  that  '11  please  him." 

Kate  went  with  a  palpitating  heart  through  the 
scullery,  out  into  the  garden,  with  a  basket  in  her 
hand,  a  pleasing  and  expansive  figure.  Bud  would 
have  liked  to  watch  her,  but  a  sense  of  delicacy  pre- 
vented, and  she  stood  at  the  kitchen  window  looking 
resolutely  into  the  street.  On  his  way  down  the  stairs 
Mr.  Dyce  was  humming  the  Hundredth  Psalm;  out- 
side the  shops  were  shuttered,  and  the  harmony  of  the 
morning  hymn  came  from  the  baker's  open  windows. 
A  few  folk  passed  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  at  a  delib- 
erate pace,  to  differentiate  it  from  the  secular  hurry  of 
other  days.  Soon  the  church  bell  would  ring  for  the 
Sabbath-school,  and  Bud  must  be  ready.  Remember- 
ing it,  a  sense  of  some  impiety  took  possession  of  her 
— worldly  trysts  in  back  gardens  on  the  Sabbath  were 
not  what  Aunt  Bell  would  much  approve  of.  Had  they 
met  yet  ?  How  did  Charles  look  ?  What  did  Kate  say  ? 

"Mercy  on  me!"  cried  the  maid,  bursting  in  through 
the  scullery.     "Did  you  say  I  was  to  whistle?" 
15  221 


BUD 

"Of  course,"  said  Bud,  and  then  looked  horrified. 
"Oh,  Kate,"  said  she,  in  a  whisper,  "I  was  so  keen  on 
the  vain  things  of  this  wicked  world  I  quite  forgot  it 
was  the  Lord's  Day;  of  course  you  can't  go  whistling 
on  Sunday." 

"That's  what  I  was  just  thinking  to  myself,"  said 
the  maid,  not  very  heartily.  "But  I  thought  I  would 
ask  you.  It  wouldn't  need  to  be  a  tune,  but — but  of 
course  it  would  be  awful  wicked — forbye  Miss  Dyce 
would  be  sure  to  hear  me,  and  she's  that  particular." 

"No,  you  can't  whistle;  you  daren't,"  said  Bud. 
"It  'd  be  dre'ffle  wicked.  But  how'd  it  do  to  throw  a 
stone?  Not  a  rock,  you  know,  but  a  nice  little  quiet 
wee  white  Sunday  pebble  ?  You  might  like  as  not  be 
throwing  it  at  Rodger's  cats,  and  that  would  be  a  work 
of  necessity  and  mercy,  for  these  cruel  cats  are  just 
death  on  birds." 

"But  there's  not  a  single  cat  there,"  explained  the 
maid. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Bud.  "You  can  heave  the  peb- 
ble over  the  wall  so  that  it  '11  be  a  warning  to  them  not 
to  come  poaching  in  our  garden;  there's  sure  to  be  some 
on  the  other  side  just  about  to  get  on  the  wall;  and  if 
Charles  happens  to  be  there,  can  you  help  that?"  and 
Kate  retired  again. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  sound  of  laughter. 
For  ten  minutes  Bud  waited  in  an  agony  of  curiosity, 
that  was  at  last  too  much  for  her,  and  she  ventured 
to  look  out  at  the  scullery  window — to  see  Charles 
chasing  his  adored  one  down  the  walk,  between  the 
bleaching-green  and  the  gooseberries.  Kate  was  mak- 
ing for  the  sanctuary  of  her  kitchen,  her  face  aflame 
and  all  her  streamers  flying,  but  was  caught  before  she 
entered. 

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"I  told  you!"  said  she,  as  she  came  in  panting. 
"We  hadn't  said  twenty  words  when  he  wanted  to 
kiss  me." 

"Why!  was  that  the  reason  you  ran?"  asked  Bud, 
astonished. 

"Ye — yes,"  said  the  maid. 

"Seems  to  me  it's  not  very  encouraging  to  Charles, 
then." 

"Yes,  but — but  I  w*asn't  running  all  my  might," 
said  Kate. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

TA-RAN-TA-RA!  Ta-ran-ta-ra! 
The  world  is  coining  for  Lennox  Dyce,  the  greedy, 
greedy  world,  youth's  first  and  worst  beguiler,  that 
promises  so  much,  but  at  the  best  has  only  bubbles  to 
give,  which  borrow  for  a  moment  the  splendor  of  the  sun, 
then  burst  in  the  hands  that  grasp  them — the  world 
that  will  have  only  our  bravest  and  most  clever  bairns, 
and  takes  them  all  from  us  one  by  one.  I  have  seen 
them  go — scores  of  them,  boys  and  girls,  their  fore- 
heads high,  and  the  sun  on  their  faces,  and  never  one 
came  back.  Now  and  then  returned  to  the  burgh,  in 
the  course  of  years,  a  man  or  woman  who  bore  a  well- 
known  name  and  could  recall  old  stories,  but  they 
were  not  the  same,  and  even  if  they  were  not  dis- 
illusioned, there  was  that  in  their  flushed  prosperity 
which  ill  made  up  for  the  bright  young  spirits  quelled. 

Ta-ran-ta-ra!     Ta-ran-ta-ra! 

Yes,  the  world  is  coming,  sure  enough — on  black 
and  yellow  wheels,  with  a  guard  red -coated  who 
bugles  through  the  glen.  It  is  coming  behind  black 
horses,  with  thundering  hoofs  and  foam -flecked  har- 
ness, between  bare  hills,  by  gurgling  burns  and  lime- 
washed  shepherd  dwellings,  or  in  the  shadow  of  the 
woods  that  simply  stand  where  they  are  placed  by 
God  and  wait.  It  comes  in  a  fur-collared  coat — though 
it  is  autumn  weather — and  in  a  tall  silk  hat,  and  looks 

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amused  at  the  harmless  country  it  has  come  to  render 
discontent. 

Ta-ran-ta-ra!     Ta-ran-ta-ra! 

Go  back,  world!  go  back,  and  leave  the  little  lass 
among  her  dreams,  with  hearts  that  love  and  cherish. 
Go  back,  with  your  false  flowers  and  your  gems  of 
paste.  Go  back,  world,  that  for  every  ecstasy  exacts 
a  pang! 


There  were  three  passengers  on  the  coach — the  man 
with  the  fur  collar  who  sat  on  the  box  beside  the  driver, 
and  the  Misses  Duff  behind.  I  am  sorry  now  that  once 
I  thought  to  make  you  smile  at  the  pigeon  hens,  for 
to-day  I'm  in  more  Christian  humor  and  my  heart 
warms  to  them,  seeing  them  come  safely  home  from 
their  flight  afar  from  their  doo-cot,  since  they  it  was 
who  taught  me  first  to  make  these  symbols  on  the 
paper,  and  at  their  worst  they  were  but  a  little  stupid, 
like  the  most  of  us  at  times,  and  always  with  the  best 
intent.  They  had  been  to  Edinburgh;  they  had  been 
gone  two  weeks — their  first  adventure  in  a  dozen  years. 
Miss  Jean  was  happy,  bringing  back  with  her  a  new 
crochet  pattern,  a  book  of  Views,  a  tooth  gold-filled 
(she  was  so  proud  and  spoke  of  it  so  often  that  it  is  not 
rude  to  mention  it) ,  and  a  glow  of  art  she  had  got  from 
an  afternoon  tea  in  a  picture-gallery  full  of  works  in 
oil.  Amelia's  spoils  were  a  phrase  that  lasted  her  for 
years — it  was  that  Edinburgh  was  "redolent  of  Robert 
Louis" — the  boast  that  she  had  heard  the  great  Mac- 
Caskill  preach,  and  got  a  lesson  in  the  searing  of  harm- 
less woods  with  heated  pokers.  Such  are  the  rewards 
of  travel;  I  have  come  home  myself  with  as  little  for 
my  time  and  money. 

But  between  them  they  had  brought  back  something 
225 


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else — something  to  whisper  about  lest  the  man  in  front 
should  hear,  and  two  or  three  times  to  look  at  as  it  lay 
in  an  innocent  roll  beside  the  purse  in  Miss  Amelia's 
reticule.  It  might  have  been  a  serpent  in  its  coils,  so 
timidly  they  glanced  in  at  it,  and  snapped  the  bag 
shut  with  a  kind  of  shudder. 

"At  least  it's  not  a  very  large  one,"  whispered  Miss 
Jean,  with  the  old  excuse  of  the  unhappy  lass  who  did 
the  deadly  sin. 

"No,"  said  her  sister,  "it  may,  indeed,  be  called 
quite  —  quite  diminutive.  The  other  he  showed  us 
was  so  horribly  large  and — and  vulgar,  the  very  look 
of  it  made  me  almost  faint.  But  oh!  I  wish  we  could 
have  dispensed  with  the  horrid  necessity.  After  twe 
— after  so  many  years  it  looks  like  a  confession  of 
weakness.  I  hope  there  will  be  no  unpleasant  talk 
about  it." 

"But  you  may  be  sure  there  will,  Amelia  Duff,"  said 
her  sister.  "They'll  cast  up  Barbara  Mushet  to  us; 
she  will  always  be  the  perfect  teacher — " 

"The  paragon  of  all  the  virtues." 

"And  it  is  such  a  gossiping  place!" 

"Indeed  it  is,"  said  Miss  Amelia.  "It  is  always 
redolent  of — of  scandal." 

"I  wish  you  had  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Miss 
Jean,  with  a  sigh  and  a  vicious  little  shake  of  the 
reticule.  "I  am  not  blaming  you,  remember,  'Melia; 
if  we  are  doing  wrong  the  blame  of  it  is  equally  between 
us,  except  perhaps  a  little  more  for  me,  for  I  did  think 
the  big  one  was  better  value  for  the  money.  And  yet 
it  made  me  grue,  it  looked  so — so  dastardly." 

"Jean,"  said  her  sister,  solemnly,  "if  you  had  taken 
the  big  one  I  would  have  marched  out  of  the  shop 
affronted.  If  it  made  you  grue,  it  made  me  shudder. 

226 


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Even  with  the  small  one,  did  you  notice  how  the  man 
looked  at  us?  I  thought  he  felt  ashamed  to  be  sell- 
ing such  a  thing;  perhaps  he  has  a  family.  He  said 
they  were  not  very  often  asked  for.  I  assure  you  I 
felt  very  small,  the  way  he  said  it." 

Once  more  they  bent  their  douce-brown  hats  to- 
gether over  the  reticule  and  looked  timidly  in  on  the 
object  of  their  shames  and  fears.  "Well,  there  it  is, 
and  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Miss  Jean  at  last,  de- 
spairingly. "Let  us  hope  and  trust  there  will  not  be 
too  frequent  need  for  it,  for,  I  assure  you,  I  have 
neither  the  strength  nor  inclination."  She  snapped 
the  bag  shut  again,  and,  glancing  up,  saw  the  man 
with  the  fur  collar  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  them. 

"Strikes  me,  ladies,"  he  said,  "the  stage-coach,  as 
an  easy  mark  for  the  highwaymen  who  used,  to  per- 
meate these  parts,  must  have  been  a  pretty  merry 
proposition;  they'd  be  apt  to  stub  their  toes  on  it  if 
they  came  sauntering  up  behind.  John  here" — with 
an  inclination  of  his  head  towards  the  driver — "tells 
me  he's  on  schedule  time,  and  I  allow  he's  making 
plenty  fuss  clicking  his  palate,  but  I  feel  I  want  to 
get  out  and  heave  rocks  at  his  cattle  so's  they'd  get 
a  better  gait  on  'em." 

Miss  Jean  was  incapable  of  utterance;  she  was  still 
too  much  afraid  of  a  stranger  who,  though  gallantly 
helping  them  to  the  top  of  the  coach  at  Mary  field, 
could  casually  address  herself  and  Miss  Amelia  as 
"dears,"  thrust  cigars  on  the  guard  and  driver,  and 
call  them  John  and  George  at  the  very  first  encounter. 

"We — we  think  this  is  fairly  fast,"  Miss  Amelia 
ventured,  surprised  at  her  own  temerity.  "It's  nine- 
teen miles  in  two  hours,  and  if  it's  not  so  fast  as  a  rail- 
way train  it  lets  you  enjoy  the  scenery.  It  is  very 

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much  admired,  our  scenery,  it's  so — it's  so  character- 
istic." 

"Sure!"  said  the  stranger,  "it's  pretty  tidy  scenery 
as  sceiiery  goes,  and  scenery's  my  forte.  But  I'd  have 
thought  that  John  here  'd  have  all  this  part  of  Caledonia 
stern  and  wild  so  much  by  heart  he'd  want  to  rush  it 
and  get  to  where  the  houses  are ;  but  most  the  time  his 
horses  go  so  slow  they  step  on  their  own  feet  at  every 
stride." 

"Possibly  the  coach  is  a  novelty  to  you,"  suggested 
Miss  Amelia,  made  wondrous  brave  by  two  weeks' 
wild  adventuring  in  Edinburgh.  "I — I  take  you  for 
an  American." 

"So  did  my  wife,  and  she  knew,  for  she  belonged  out 
mother's  place,"  said  the  stranger,  laughing.  "You've 
guessed  right,  first  time.  No,  the  coach  is  no  novelty 
to  me;  I've  been  up  against  a  few  in  various  places.  If 
I'm  short  of  patience  and  want  more  go  just  at  present, 
it's  because  I'm  full  of  a  good  joke  on  an  old  friend 
I'm  going  to  meet  at  the  end  of  these  obsequies." 

"Obsequies?"  repeated  Miss  Amelia,  with  surprise, 
and  he  laughed  again. 

"At  the  end  of  the  trip,"  he  explained.  "This  par- 
ticular friend  is  not  expecting  me,  because  I  hadn't  a 
post-card,  hate  a  letter,  and  don't  seem  to  have  been 
within  shout  of  a  telegraph  -  office  since  I  left  Edin- 
burgh this  morning." 

"We  have  just  come  from  Edinburgh  ourselves," 
Miss  Jean  chimed  in. 

"So!"  said  the  stranger,  throwing  his  arm  over 
the  back  of  his  seat  to  enter  more  comfortably  into 
the  conversation.  "It's  picturesque.  Pretty  peaceful, 
too.  But  it's  liable  to  be  a  little  shy  of  the  Thespian 
muse.  I  didn't  know  more  than  Cooper's  cow  about 

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Edinburgh  when  I  got  there  last  Sunday  fortnight; 
but  I've  gone  perusing  around  a  bit  since;  and  say, 
my!  she's  fine  and  old!  I  wasn't  half  a  day  in  the  city 
when  I  found  out  that  when  it  came  to  the  real  legit. 
Queen  Mary  was  the  king-pin  of  the  outfit  in  Edin- 
burgh. Before  I  came  to  this  country  I  couldn't  just 
place  Mary;  sometimes  she  was  Bloody  and  sometimes 
she  was  Bonnie,  but  I  suppose  I  must  have  mixed  her 
up  with  some  no-account  English  queen  of  the  same 
name." 

"Edinburgh,"  said  Miss  Amelia,  "is  redolent  of 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots — and  Robert  Louis." 

"It  just  is!"  he  said.  "There's  a  little  bedroom  she 
had  in  the  castle  yonder,  no  bigger  than  a  Chicago 
bath-room.  Why,  there's  hardly  room  for  a  night- 
mare in  it;  a  skittish  nightmare  'd  kick  the  transom 
out.  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  single  dramatic  line 
in  the  whole  play  that  Mary  didn't  have  to  herself. 
She  was  the  entire  cast,  and  the  spot-light  was  on  her 
for  the  abduction  scene,  the  child-widow  scene,  the 
murder,  the  battle,  and  the  last  tag  at  Fotheringay. 
Three  husbands  and  a  lot  of  flirtations  that  didn't  come 
to  anything,  her  portrait  everywhere,  and  the  news- 
papers tracking  her  up  like  Old  Sleuth  from  that  day  to 
this!  I  guess  Queen  Lizzie  put  her  feet  in  it  when  she 
killed  Mary — for  Mary's  the  star-line  in  history,  and 
Lizzie's  mainly  celebrated  for  spoiling  a  good  Prince 
Albert  coat  on  Walter  Raleigh." 

He  spoke  so  fast,  he  used  such  curious  words  and 
idioms  which  the  Misses  Duff  had  never  heard  before 
nor  read  in  books,  that  they  were  sure  again  he  was  a 
dreadful  person.  With  a  sudden  thought  of  warnings 
to  "Beware  of  Pickpockets"  she  had  seen  in  Edin- 
burgh, Miss  Amelia  clutched  so  hard  at  the  chain  of 

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the  reticule  which  held  their  purse  as  well  as  their 
mystery  that  it  broke,  and  the  bag  fell  over  the  side  of 
the  coach  and,  bursting  open,  scattered  its  contents 
on  the  road  unobserved  by  the  guard,  whose  bugle  at 
the  moment  was  loudly  flourishing  for  the  special 
delectation  of  a  girl  at  work  in  a  neighboring  cornfield. 

"Hold  hard,  John,"  said  the  American,  and  before 
the  coach  had  quite  stopped  he  was  down  on  the  high- 
way recovering  the  little  teacher's  property. 

The  serpent  had  unwound  its  coils;  it  lay  revealed 
in  all  its  hideousness — a  teacher's  tawse! 

At  such  a  sad  exposure  its  owners  could  have  wept. 
They  had  never  dreamed  a  tawse  could  look  so  vul- 
gar and  forbidding  as  it  looked  when  thus  exposed  to 
the  eye  of  man  on  the  king's  highway. 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much,"  said  Miss  Jean.  "It  is 
so  kind  of  you." 

"Exceedingly  kind,  courteous  beyond  measure — we 
are  more  than  obliged  to  you,"  cooed  Miss  Amelia, 
with  a  face  like  a  sunset  as  she  rolled  the  leather  up 
with  nervous  fingers. 

"Got  children,  ma'am,"  asked  the  American,  seri- 
ously, as  the  coach  proceeded  on  its  way. 

Miss  Amelia  Duff  made  the  best  joke  of  her  life 
without  meaning  it.  "Twenty-seven,"  said  she,  with 
an  air  of  great  gratitude,  and  the  stranger  smiled. 

"School-ma'am.  Now  that's  good,  that  is;  it  puts 
me  in  mind  of  home,  for  I  appreciate  school-ma'ams  so 
heartily  that  about  as  soon  as  I  got  out  of  the  school 
myself  I  married  one.  I've  never  done  throwing  bou- 
quets at  myself  about  it  ever  since,  but  I'm  sorry  for 
the  mites  she  could  have  been  giving  a  good  time  to 
as  well  as  their  education,  if  it  hadn't  been  that  she's 
so  much  mixed  up  with  me.  What  made  me  ask  about 

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children  was  that — that  mediaeval  animator.  I  haven't 
seen  one  for  years  and  years,  not  since  old  Deacon 
Springfield  found  me  astray  in  his  orchard  one  night 
and  hiking  for  a  short-cut  home.  I  thought  they'd  been 
abolished  by  the  treaty  of  Berlin." 

Miss  Amelia  thrust  it  hurriedly  into  the  reticule. 
"We  have  never  used  one  all  our  life,"  she  said,  "but 
now  we  fear  we  have  to,  and,  as  you  see,  it's  quite  thin, 
it's  quite  a  little  one." 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  stranger,  solemnly.  "It's  thin, 
it's  translucent,  you  might  say;  but  I  guess  the  kiddies 
are  pretty  little,  too,  and  won't  be  able  to  make  any 
allowance  for  the  fact  that  you  could  have  had  a  larger 
size  if  you  wanted.  It  may  be  light  on  the  fingers 
and  mighty  heavy  on  the  feelings." 

"That's  what  you  said,"  whispered  Miss  Amelia  to 
her  sister. 

"As  moral  suasion,  belting  don't  cut  ice,"  went  on 
the  American.  "It's  generally  only  a  safety-valve  for 
a  wrothy,  grown-up  person  with  a  temper  and  a  child 
that  can't  hit  back." 

"That's  what  you  said,"  whispered  Miss  Jean  to  Miss 
Amelia,  and  never  did  two  people  look  more  miserably 
guilty. 

"What  beats  me,"  said  the  stranger,  "is  that  you 
should  have  got  along  without  it  so  far  and  think  it 
necessary  now." 

"Perhaps — perhaps  we  won't  use  it,"  said  Miss  Jean. 

"Except  as — as  a  sort  of  symbol,"  added  her  sister. 
"We  would  never  have  dreamed  of  it  if  the  children 
nowadays  were  not  so  different  from  what  they  used 
to  be." 

"I  guess  folks  been  saying  that  quite  awhile,"  said 
the  American.  "Children  never  were  like  what  they 

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used  to  be.  I  reckons  old  Mother  Nature  spits  on 
her  hands  and  makes  a  fresh  start  with  each  baby, 
and  never  turns  out  two  alike.  That's  why  it's  fun 
to  sit  and  watch  'em  bloom.  Pretty  delicate  blooms, 
too!  Don't  bear  much  pawing;  just  give  them  a  bit 
of  shelter  when  the  weather's  cold,  a  prop  to  lean 
against  if  they're  leggy  and  the  wind's  high,  and  see 
that  the  fertilizer  is  the  proper  brand.  Whether  they're 
going  to  turn  out  like  the  picture  on  the  packet  or 
just  only  weeds  depends  on  the  seedsman." 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand  how  rebellious  they  can 
be !"  cried  Miss  Amelia,  with  feeling.  "And  they  haven't 
the  old  deference  to  their  elders  that  they  used  to  have ; 
they're  growing  bold  and  independent." 

"Depends  on  the  elders,  I  suppose.  Over  here  I 
think  you  folks  think  children  come  into  the  world 
just  to  please  grown-ups,  and  do  what  they're  told  with- 
out any  thinking.  In  America  it's  looked  at  the  other 
way  about:  the  children  are  considerably  more  impor- 
tant than  their  elders,  and  the  notion  don't  do  any  harm 
to  either,  far  as  I  can  see.  As  for  your  rebels,  ma'am, 
I'd  cherish  'em;  rebellion's  like  a  rash,  it's  better  out 
than  in." 

Ta-ran-ta-ra !  The  bugle  broke  upon  their  conversa- 
tion; the  coach  emerged  from  the  wood  and  dashed 
downhill,  and,  wheeling  through  the  arches,  drew  up 
at  the  inn. 

The  American  helped  the  ladies  to  alight,  took  off 
his  hat,  bade  them  good-day,  and  turned  to  speak  to 
his  friend  the  driver,  when  a  hand  was  placed  on  his 
sleeve  and  a  child  with  a  dog  at  her  feet  looked  up  in 
his  face. 

"Jim!     Why,  Jim  Molyneux!"  cried  Bud. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

FOR  only  a  day  or  two  the  world  (in  a  fur-lined  col- 
lar) dwelt  among  us,  but  momentous  was  its  ad- 
vent to  the  household  Molyneux  came  visiting.  It 
was  as  if  a  high  tide  had  swept  the  dwelling,  Bell  re- 
marked, when  he  was  gone.  You  might  see  no  out- 
ward difference;  the  furniture  might  still  be  as  it  was, 
and  in  the  same  position  as  Miss  Bell  had  found  it 
when  her  mother  died,  but  all  the  same  there  was  an 
unseen,  doleful  wreckage.  This  unco  man  Molyneux 
changed  the  vital  thing,  the  atmosphere,  and  the  house 
with  the  brass  knocker  was  never  to  be  altogether  just 
the  same  again.  It  is  no  discovery  of  mine  that  what 
may  seem  the  smallest  trifles  play  tremendous  parts  in 
destiny. 

Even  the  town  itself  was  someway  altered  for  a 
little  by  the  whim  that  took  the  American  actor  to  it. 
That  he  should  be  American,  and  actor,  too,  foredoomed 
the  greatness  of  his  influence,  since  the  combination 
stood  for  much  that  was  mysterious,  half  fearful,  half 
sublime  in  our  simple  notions  of  the  larger  world. 
To  have  been  the  first  alone  would  have  endowed  him 
with  the  charm  of  wonder  and  romance  for  most  of 
us,  who  at  the  very  sight  of  the  name  America,  even 
if  it  be  only  on  a  reaper  or  a  can  of  beef,  have  some 
sense  of  a  mightiness  that  the  roar  of  London  cannot 
rouse.  But  to  be  an  actor,  too!  earning  easy  bread 

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by  mimicry  and  in  enormous  theatres  before  folk  that 
have  made  money — God  knows  how! — and  prospered. 
Sinful  a  little,  we  allow,  for  there  are  doubts  if  the 
play-actor,  having  to  paint  his  face  and  work  late 
hours  in  gaslight,  finally  shall  obtain  salvation — sin- 
ful, and  yet — and  yet  so  queer  and  clever  a  way  of 
making  out  a  living!  It  is  no  wonder  if  we  looked  on 
Mr.  Molyneux  with  that  regard  which  by  cities  is  re- 
served for  shahs  of  a  hundred  wives,  and  royal  vaga- 
bonds. Besides,  consider  how  the  way  had  been  pre- 
pared for  him  by  Bud! — a  child,  but  a  child  who  had 
shown  already  how  wonderful  must  be  the  land  that 
had  swallowed  up  clever  men  like  William  Dyce  and 
the  brother  of  P.  &.  A.  MacGlashan.  Had  she  not, 
by  a  single  object-lesson  in  the  Pilgrim  widow's  ware- 
house, upset  the  local  ways  of  commerce,  so  that  now, 
in  all  the  shops,  the  people  were  constantly  buying 
things  of  which  they  had  no  earthly  need,  and  the 
Pilgrim  widow  herself  was  put  to  the  weekly  trouble  of 
washing  her  windows,  so  wasting  time  that  might  have 
been  devoted  to  the  mission  ?  Had  she  not  shown  that 
titled  ladies  were  but  human,  after  all,  and  would  not 
bite  you  if  you  cracked  a  joke  politely  with  them? 
Had  she  not  put  an  end  to  all  the  gallivanting  of  the 
maid  of  Colonsay  and  given  her  an  education  that 
made  her  fit  to  court  a  captain?  And,  finally,  had 
she  not  by  force  of  sheer  example  made  dumb  and 
stammering  bashfulness  in  her  fellow-pupils  at  the 
Sunday-school  look  stupid,  and  by  her  daily  walk  and 
conversation  roused  in  them  a  new  spirit  of  inquiry 
and  independence  that  pleased  their  parents  not  so 
badly,  and  only  the  little  twin  teachers  of  the  Pigeons' 
Seminary  could  mistake  for  the  kind  of  rebellion  that 
calls  for  the  application  of  the  tawse  ? 

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Mr.  Molyneux  might  have  no  idea  of  it,  but  he  was 
a  lion  for  those  few  days  of  sequestration  in  what  he 
thought  the  wilds.  Miss  Minto  dressed  her  windows 
specially  for  his  critical  eye,  and  on  the  tickets  of  her 
autumn  sales  gave  the  name  of  "waist"  to  what  had 
hitherto  been  a  blouse  or  a  garibaldi.  P.  &.  A.  Mac- 
Glashan  made  the  front  of  his  shop  like  a  wharf  with 
piles  of  empty  packing-cases  to  indicate  a  prosperous 
foreign  and  colonial  trade.  One  morning  Wanton  Wully 
rang  the  bell  at  half -past  five  instead  of  six  to  prove 
how  very  wide-awake  we  were;  and  the  band  paraded 
once  with  a  new  tune,  "Off  to  Philadelphia,"  to  show 
that  when  it  came  to  gayety  we  were  not,  though  small, 
so  very  far  behind  New  York. 

But  -Jim  Molyneux,  going  up  and  down  the  street 
with  Lennox  and  the  dog  for  cicerones,  peered  from 
under  the  rim  of  his  hat,  and  summed  all  up  to  him- 
self in  the  words  "Rube  town"  and  " Cobwebopolis. " 

Bell  took  warmly  to  him  from  the  outset;  so  much 
was  in  his  favor.  For  one  thing  he  was  spick-and- 
span  though  not  a  jackanapes,  with  no  long  hair  about 
him  as  she  had  expected,  and  with  an  honest  eye  and 
a  good  complexion  that  simple  country  ladies  readily 
pass  as  the  guarantee  of  a  being  clean  within.  She 
forgave  the  disreputable  part  in  him — the  actor — since 
William  had  been  one  and  yet  had  taught  his  child  her 
prayers,  and  she  was  willing  to  overlook  the  American, 
seeing  William's  wife  had  suffered  from  the  same  mis- 
fortune. But  oh!  the  blow  she  got  when  she  unpacked 
what  he  called  his  grip  and  found  the  main  thing  wanting! 

"Where's  your  Bible,  Mr.  Molyneux?"  she  asked, 
solemnly.  "It's  not  in  your  portmanteau!" 

Again  it  was  in  his  favor  that  he  reddened,  though 
the  excuse  he  had  to  make  was  feeble. 

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"Dear  me!"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  with  a  sad 
sort  of  smile.  "And  you  to  be  so  regularly  travelling! 
If  I  was  your  wife  I  would  take  you  in  hand!  But 
perhaps  in  America  there's  no  need  for  a  lamp  to  the 
feet  and  a  light  to  the  path." 

It  was  after  their  first  supper,  for  which  the  patriot 
Bell  had  made  a  haggis,  that  her  brother,  for  Moly- 
neux's  information,  said  was  thought  to  be  composed 
of  bagpipes  boiled.  Bud  was  gone  to  bed  in  the  attic, 
and  Molyneux  was  telling  how  he  simply  had  to  come. 

"It's  my  first  time  in  Scotland,"  said  he;  "and 
when  'The  Iron  Hand'  lost  its  clutch  on  old  Edina's 
fancy,  and  the  scenery  was  arrested,  I  wasn't  so  sore 
about  it  as  I  might  have  been,  since  it  gave  me  the 
opportunity  of  coming  up  here  to  see  girly-girly.  I'll 
skiddoo  from  the  gang  for  a  day  or  two,  I  said  to  the 
manager  when  we  found  ourselves  side-tracked,  and 
he  said  that  was  all  right,  he'd  wire  me  when  he'd 
fixed  a  settlement,  so  I  skiddid,  and  worked  my  way 
here  with  the  aid  of  the  American  language,  and  a 
little  Scotch — by  absorption." 

"We  have  only  one  fault  with  your  coming — that 
it  was  not  sooner,"  said  Mr.  Dyce. 

"And  I'm  pretty  glad  I  came,  if  it  was  only  to  see 
what  a  credit  Bud  is  to  a  Scottish  training.  Chicago's 
the  finest  city  on  earth — in  spots;  America's  what  our 
Fourth-of-July  orators  succinctly  designate  God's  Own, 
and  since  Joan  of  Arc  there  hasn't  been  any  woman 
better  or  braver  than  Mrs.  Molyneux.  But  we  weren't 
situated  to  give  Bud  a  show  like  what  she'd  get  in 
a  settled  home.  We  did  our  best,  but  we  didn't 
dwell,  as  you  might  say,  on  Michigan  Avenue,  and 
Mrs.  Molyneux's  a  dear,  good  girl,  but  she  isn't  demon- 
stratively domesticated.  We  suspected  from  what 

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Bud's  father  was,  the  healthiest  place  she  could  be 
was  where  he  came  from,  and  though  we  skipped  some 
sleep,  both  of  us,  to  think  of  losing  her,  now  that  I'm 
here  and  see  her,  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  my  wife  and  I  are 
pretty  much  on  the  drift  most  the  time  in  England, 
as  we  were  in  the  United  States." 

"Yours  is  an  exacting  calling,  Mr.  Molyneux,"  said 
Mr.  Dyce.  "It's  very  much  the  same  in  all  countries, 
I  suppose?" 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  stone-breaking  nor  so  much  of 
a  cinch  as  being  a  statesman,"  said  Mr.  Molyneux, 
cheerfully,  ' '  but  a  man's  pretty  old  at  it  before  he  gives 
up  hope  of  breaking  out  into  a  very  large  gun.  I've 
still  the  idea  myself  that  if  I'm  not  likely  to  be  a  Booth 
or  Henry  Irving,  I  could  make  a  pile  at  management. 
With  a  millionaire  at  my  back  for  a  mascot  and  one 
strong  star,  I  fancy  I  could  cut  a  pretty  wide  gash 
through  the  English  dramatic  stage.  You  know  our 
Mr.  Emerson  said,  'Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star.'  I 
guess  if  I  got  a  good  star  bridled,  I'd  hitch  a  private 
parlor-car  and  a  steam-yacht  onto  her  before  she  flicked 
an  ear.  Who  wants  a  wagon,  anyway  ?£ 

"A  wagon's  fairly  safe  to  travel  in,"  suggested  Mr. 
Dyce,  twinkling  through  his  glasses. 

"So's  a  hearse,"  said  Mr.  Molyneux,  quickly.  "No- 
body that  ever  travelled  in  a  hearse  ever  complained 
of  getting  his  funny-bone  jolted  or  his  feelings  jarred, 
but  it's  a  mighty  slow  conveyance  for  live  folks.  That's 
the  only  thing  that  seems  to  me  to  be  wrong  with  this 
cute  little  British  kingdom;  it's  pretty  and  it's  what 
the  school-marm  on  the  coach  would  call  redolent  of 
the  dear,  dead  days  beyond  recall,  and  it's  plucky, 
but  it  keeps  the  brakes  on  most  the  time  and  don't 
give  its  star  a  chance  to  amble.  I  guess  it's  a  fine 
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crowded  and  friendly  country  to  be  born  rich  in,  and  a 
pretty  peaceful  and  lonesome  country  to  die  poor  in; 
but  take  a  tenpenny  car  ride  out  from  Charing  Cross 
and  you're  in  Lullaby  Land  and  the  birds  are  building 
nests  and  carolling  in  your  whiskers.  Life's  short; 
it  only  gives  a  man  time  to  wear  through  one  pair  of 
eyes,  two  sets  of  teeth,  and  a  reputation,  and  I  want 
to  live  every  hour  of  it  that  I'm  not  conspicuously 
dead." 

They  were  silent  in  the  parlor  of  the  old  house  that 
had  for  generations  sheltered  very  different  ideals, 
and  over  the  town  went  the  call  of  the  wild  geese. 
The  room,  low -roofed,  small  -  windowed,  papered  in 
dull  green,  curtained  against  the  noises  of  the  street, 
and  furnished  with  the  strong  mahogany  of  Grandma 
Buntain,  dead  for  sixty  years,  had  ever  to  those  who 
knew  it  best  a  soul  of  peace  that  is  not,  sometimes, 
found  in  a  cathedral.  They  felt  in  it  a  sanctuary  safe 
from  the  fret  and  tempest,  the  alarm  and  disillusions 
of  the  life  out-bye.  In  the  light  of  the  shaded  lamp 
hung  over  the  table,  it  showed  itself  to  its  inmates 
in  the  way  out  most  familiar  surroundings  will  at  cer- 
tain crises — in  an  aspect  fonder  than  ever  it  had  re- 
vealed before.  To  Bell,  resenting  the  spirit  of  this 
actor's  gospel,  it  seemed  as  if  the  room  cried  out 
against  the  sacrilege;  even  Ailie,  sharing  in  her  heart, 
if  less  ecstatically,  the  fervor  for  life  at  its  busiest  this 
stranger  showed,  experienced  some  inharmony.  To 
Dan  it  was  for  a  moment  as  if  he  heard  a  man  sell 
cuckoo  clocks  by  auction  with  a  tombstone  for  his 
rostrum. 

"Mr.  Molyneux,"  said  he,  "you  remind  me,  in  what 
you  say,  of  Maggie  White's  husband.  Before  he  died 
he  kept  the  public-house,  and  on  winter  nights  when 

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my  old  friend  Colin  Cleland  and  his  cronies  would  be 
sitting  in  the  back  room  with  a  good  light,  a  roaring 
fire,  and  an  argument  about  Effectual  Calling,  so  lively 
that  it  stopped  the  effectual  and  profitable  call  for 
Johnny's  toddy,  he  would  come  in  cluttering  as  it 
were  with  cold,  and  his  coat  collar  up  on  his  neck,  to 
say:  "An  awfu'  nicht  outside!  As  dark  as  the  inside 
o'  a  cow  and  as  cauld  as  charity!  They're  lucky  that 
have  fires  to  sit  by.'  And  he  would  impress  them  so 
much  with  the  good-fortune  of  their  situation  at  the 
time  that  they  would  order  in  another  round  and  put 
off  their  going  all  the  longer,  though  the  night  out- 
side, in  truth,  was  no  way  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  feel 
like  that  about  this  place  I  was  born  in,  and  its  old 
fashions  and  its  lack  of  hurry,  when  I  hear  you — with 
none  of  Johnny  White's  stratagem — tell  us,  not  how 
dark  and  cold  is  the  world  outside,  but  what  to  me, 
at  the  age  of  fifty-five,  at  any  rate  is  just  as  unattrac- 
tive. You'll  excuse  me  if,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  I 
ring  the  bell  for  another  round.  Life's  short,  as  you 
say,  but  I  don't  think  it  makes  it  look  any  the  longer 
to  run  through  the  hours  of  it  instead  of  leisurely 
daundering  —  if  you  happen  to  know  what  daunder- 
ing  is,  Mr.  Molyneux — and  now  and  then  resting  on 
the  road -side  with  a  friend  and  watching  the  others 
pass." 

"At  fifty-five,"  said  Mr.  Molyneux,  agreeably,  "I'll 
perhaps  think  so,  too,  but  I  can  only  look  at  it  from 
the  point  of  view  of  thirty-two.  We've  all  got  to  move, 
at  first,  Mr.  Dyce.  That  reminds  me  of  a  little  talk 
I  had  with  Bud  to-day.  That  child's  growing,  Mr. 
Dyce  —  grown  a  heap  of  ways.  She's  hardly  a  child 
any  longer." 

"Tuts!  She's  nothing  else!"  exclaimed  Miss  Bell, 
239 


BUD 

with  some  misgiving.     "When  I  was  her  age  I  was 
still  at  my  sampler  in  Barbara  Mushet's." 

"Anyhow,  she's  grown.  And  it  seems  to  me  she's 
about  due  for  a  little  fresh  experience.  I  suppose 
you'll  be  thinking  of  sending  her  to  one  of  those  Edin- 
burgh schools  to  have  the  last  coat  of  shellac  put  on 
her  education?" 

"What  put  that  in  your  head?  Did  she  suggest  it 
herself?"  asked  Mr.  Dyce,  quickly,  with  his  head  to 
one  side  in  his  cross-examination  manner. 

"Well  she  did — but  she  didn't  know  it,"  said  Mr. 
Molyneux.  "I  guess  about  the  very  last  thing  that 
child  'd  suggest  to  anybody  would  be  that  she  wanted 
to  separate  herself  from  folk  she  loves  so  much  as  you ; 
but  if  there's  one  weakness  about  her  it  is  that  she 
can't  conceal  what  she  thinks,  and  I'd  not  been  twenty 
minutes  in  her  society  before  I  found  out  she  had  the  go- 
fever  pretty  bad.  I  suspect  a  predisposition  to  that 
complaint,  and  a  good  heart  was  all  her  father  and  moth- 
er left  her,  and  lolling  around  and  dwelling  on  the  past 
isn't  apt  to  be  her  foible.  *  Two  or  three  years  in  the 
boarding-school  arena  would  put  the  cap-sheaf  on  the 
making  of  that  girl's  character,  and  I  know,  for  there's 
my  wife,  and  she  had  only  a  year  and  a  half.  If  she'd 
had  longer  I  guess  she'd  have  had  more  sense  than 
marry  me.  Bud's  got  almost  every  mortal  thing  a  body 
wants  here,  I  suppose — love  in  lumps,  a  warm,  moist 
soil,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but  she  wants  to  be  hardened 
off,  and  for  hardening  off  a  human  flower  there's  noth- 
ing better  than  a  three-course  college,  where  the  social 
breeze  is  cooler  than  it  is  at  home." 

Miss  Bell  turned  pale — the  blow  had  come!  Dan 
looked  at  her  with  a  little  pity,  for  he  knew  she  had 
long  been  fearfully  expecting  it. 

240 


BUD 

"Indeed!"  said  she;  "and  I  do  not  see  the  need  for 
any  such  thing  for  a  long  while  yet.  Do  you,  Ailie?" 
But  Ailie  had  no  answer,  and  that  was  enough  to  show 
what  she  thought. 

"I  know  how  it  feels  at  first  to  think  of  her  going 
away  from  home,"  continued  Mr.  Molyneux,  eager  to 
be  on  with  a  business  he  had  no  great  heart  for.  "Bless 
you,  I  know  how  my  wife  felt  about  it:  she  cried  like 
the  cherubim  and  seraphim;  said  it  was  snatching  all 
the  sunshine  out  of  her  life;  and  when  I  said,  'Millicent 
Molyneux,  what  about  hubby?'  she  just  said  'Scat!' 
and  threw  a  couple  of  agonized  throes.  Now  Edin- 
burgh's not  so  very  far  away  that  you'd  feel  desolated 
if  Bud  went  to  a  school  there." 

"An  unhealthy  hole,  with  haars  and  horrible  east 
wind,"  said  Miss  Bell. 

"Well,  it  isn't  the  Pacific  slope  if  it  comes  to  cli- 
mate," admitted  Mr.  Molyneux. 

"No,  but  it's  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  wide 
world  for  all  that,"  cried  Miss  Bell,  with  such  spirit 
that  it  cleared  the  air  and  made  her  sister  and  her 
brother  smile,  for  Molyneux,  without  his  knowing  it,  had 
touched  her  in  the  very  heart's  core  of  her  national 
pride. 

"You're  sure  you  are  not  mistaken,  and  that  she 
would  wish  to  go  to  school?"  asked  Mr.  Dyce. 

"Do  you  doubt  it  yourself?"  asked  Molyneux,  slyly. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  "I  know  it  well  enough,  but 
— but  I  don't  believe  it,"  and  he  smiled  at  his  own 
paradox. 

"I  have  her  own  words  for  it." 

"Then  she'll  go!"  said  the  lawyer,  firmly,  as  if  a 
load  was  off  his  mind,  and,  oddly,  there  were  no  ob- 
jections from  his  sisters.  "You're  not  to  imagine, 

241 


BUD 

Mr.  Molyneux,"  he  went  on,  "that  we  have  not  thought 
of  this  before.  It  has  for  months  been  never  out  of 
our  minds,  as  might  be  seen  from  the  fact  that  we 
never  mentioned  it,  being  loath  to  take  a  step  that's 
going  to  make  considerable,  difference  here.  It's  not 
that  we  feared  we  should  die  of  ennui  in  her  absence, 
for  we're  all  philosophers  and  have  plenty  to  engage 
our  minds  as  well  as  our  activities,  and  though  you 
might  think  us  rather  rusty  here,  we  get  a  good  deal 
of  fun  with  ourselves.  She'll  go  —  oh  yes,  of  course 
she'll  go — Ailie  went — and  she's  no  muckle  the  waur 
o't,  as  we  say.  I  spent  some  time  in  the  south  myself, 
and  the  only  harm  it  seems  to  have  done  me  was  to 
make  me  think  too  much,  perhaps,  of  my  native  north. 
Taste's  everything,  Mr.  Molyneux,  and  you  may  re- 
tort if  you  please  that  I'm  like  the  other  Scotsman 
who  preferred  his  apples  small  and  hard  and  sour.  I 
think  there's  no  divine  instruction,  is  there,  Bell,  about 
apples?  and  judgments  regarding  different  countries 
and  different  places  in  them  is  mostly  a  subjective 
thing,  like  the  estimate  of  beauty  apart  from  its  util- 
ity—" 

"Oh!  there  you  are  at  your  metapheesics,  Dan," 
cried  Miss  Bell,  "and  it's  for  me  and  Ailie  to  make  ready 
the  bairn  for  Edinburgh.  She  hasna  got  a  stitch  that's 
fit  to  be  put  on." 

Molyneux  stared  at  her;  the  tone  displayed  so  little 
opposition  to  the  project;  and  seeing  him  so  much 
surprised  the  three  of  them  smiled. 

"That's  us!"  said  Mr.  Dyce.  "We're  dour  and 
difficult  to  decide  on  anything  involving  change,  and 
hide  from  ourselves  as  long  as  we  can  the  need  for  it, 
but  once  our  mind's  made  up  it's  wonderful  how  we 
hurry." 

242 


CHAPTER   XXV 

BELL  liked  the  creature,  as  I  say,  not  a  little  be- 
cause she  saw  in  him  whence  came  some  part 
of  Bud's  jocosity  and  most  of  the  daftlike  language 
(though  kind  of  clever,  too,  she  must  allow)  in  which 
it  was  expressed.  It  was  a  different  kind  of  jocosity 
from  Dan's,  whose  fun,  she  used  to  say,  partook  of 
the  nature  of  rowan  jelly,  being  tart  and  sweet  in  such 
a  cunning  combination  that  it  tickled  every  palate 
and  held  some  natural  virtue  of  the  mountain  tree. 
The  fun  of  Molyneux  had  another  flavor;  it  put  her 
in  mind  of  allspice,  being  foreign,  having  heat  as  well 
as  savor.  But  in  each  of  these  droll  men  was  the 
main  thing,  as  she  would  aye  consider  it — no  distrust 
of  the  Creator's  judgment,  good  intentions,  and  ability, 
and  a  readiness  to  be  laughed  at  as  well  as  find  laugh- 
ter's cause  in  others.  She  liked  the  man,  but  still- 
and-on  was  almost  glad  when  the  telegram  came 
from  Edinburgh  and  he  went  back  to  join  his  com- 
pany. It  was  not  any  lack  of  hospitality  made  her 
feel  relief,  but  the  thought  that  now  Bud's  going  was 
determined  on,  there  was  so  much  to  do  in  a  house 
where  men  would  only  be  a  bother. 

Mr.  Molyneux  found  himself  so  much  at  home 
among  them  he  was  loath  to  go,  expressing  his  contempt 
for  a  mode  of  transit  to  the  railway  that  took  two 
hours  to  nineteen  miles,  but  Bell,  defensive  even  of 

243 


BUD 

her  country's  coaches,  told  him  he  was  haivering — 
that  any  greater  speed  than  that  was  simply  tempting 
Providence.  He  praised  the  Lord  there  was  no 
Providence  to  be  tempted  inside  Sandy  Hook,  and 
that  he  knew  Beef  Kings  who  hurled  themselves 
across  the  landscape  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  a  minute. 
The  fact  inspired  no  admiration  in  Miss  Bell;  she 
wondered  at  the  misguided  wretches  scudding  like 
that  regardless  of  their  lives,  and  them  with  so  much 
money. 

Before  he  left  he  called  at  the  Pigeons'  Seminary  to 
say  good-bye  to  the  little  teachers,  and  sipped  tea,  a 
British  institution  which  he  told  them  was  as  delete- 
rious as  the  High  Ball  of  his  native  land.  High  Ball 
— what  was  a  High  Ball  ?  asked  Miss  Amelia,  scenting 
a  nice  new  phrase,  but  he  could  only  vague.ly  indicate 
that  it  was  something  made  of  rye  and  soda.  Then 
she  understood — it  was  a  teetotal  drink  men  took  in 
clubs,  a  kind  of  barley-water.  The  tea  gratified  him 
less  than  the  confidence  of  the  twins,  who  told  him 
they  had  taken  what  he  said  about  the — about  the 
shameful  article  so  much  to  heart,  that  they  had  given 
it  for  a  razor-strop  to  one  George  Jordon. 

"Bully  for  you!"  cried  Mr.  Molyneux,  delighted. 
"But  I'd  have  liked  that  tawse  some  myself,  for  my 
wife's  mighty  keen  on  curios.  She's  got  a  sitting-room 
full  of  Navajo  things — scalpin'-knives,  tomahawks,  and 
other  brutal  bric-a-brac — and  an  early  British  strap 
would  tickle  her  to  death." 

Well,  he  was  gone — the  coachman's  horn  had  scarce- 
ly ceased  to  echo  beyond  the  arches  when  Miss  Bell 
had  thrown  herself  into  the  task  of  preparing  for 
Bud's  change  in  life. 

What  school  was  she  to  go  to  in  Edinburgh  ?  Ailie 
244 


BUD 

knew;  there  was  none  better  than  the  one  she  had 
gone  to  herself. 

When  did  it  open  ?     Ailie  knew:  in  a  fortnight. 

What,  exactly,  would  she  need?  Ailie  knew  that, 
too:  she  had  in  the  escritoire  a  list  of  things  made  up 
already. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Miss  Bell,  suspiciously, 
"you're  desperately  well  informed  on  all  that  apper- 
tains to  this  sudden  necessity.  How  long  has  it  been 
in  your  mind?" 

"For  a  twelvemonth  at  least,"  answered  Ailie,  boldly. 
"How  long  has  it  been  in  your  own?" 

"H'm!"  said  Bell.  "About  as  long,  but  I  aye  re- 
fused to  harbor  it;  and — and  now  that  the  thing's  de- 
cided on,  Ailie  Dyce,  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  stand 
there  arguing  away  about  it  all  day  long  when  there's 
so  much  to  do." 

Surely  there  was  never  another  house  so  thronged,  so 
bustling,  so  feverish  in  anxiety  as  this  one  was  for  an- 
other fortnight.  The  upper  and  the  lower  Dyce 
Academy  took  holiday;  Kate's  education  stopped 
with  a  sudden  gasp  at  a  dreadful  hill  called  Popocata- 
petl,  and  she  said  she  did  not  care  a  button,  since 
Captain  Maclean  (no  longer  Charles  to  any  one  except 
himself  and  Bud  in  the  more  confidential  moments) 
said  the  main  things  needed  in  a  sailor's  wife  were 
health,  hope,  and  temper,  and  a  few  good-laying  hens. 
Miss  Minto  was  engaged  upon  Bud's  grandest  garments 
running  out  and  in  next  door  herself  with  inch-tapes 
over  her  shoulders  and  a  mouthful  of  pins,  and  bang- 
ing up  against  the  lawyer  in  his  lobby  to  her  great 
distress  of  mind.  And  Bell  had  in  the  seamstress, 
'Lizbeth  Ann,  to  help  her  and  Ailie  with  the  rest. 
Mercator  sulked  neglected  on  the  wall  of  Mr.  Dyce's 

245 


BUD 

study,  which  was  strewn  with  basting-threads  and 
snippets  of  selvedge  and  lining  till  it  looked  like  a 
tailor's  shop,  and  Bud  and  Footles  played  on  the 
floor  of  it  with  that  content  which  neither  youth  nor 
dogs  can  find  in  chambers  trim  and  orderly.  Even 
Kate  was  called  in  to  help  these  hurried  operations — 
they  called  it  the  making  of  Bud's  trousseau.  In  the 
garden  birds  were  calling,  calling;  far  sweeter  in  the 
women's  ears  were  the  snip-snip  of  scissors,  the  whir 
of  the  sewing-machine;  needle-arms  went  back  and 
forth  like  fiddle-bows  in  an  orchestra,  and  from  webs 
of  cloth  and  linen  came  forth  garments  whose  variety 
intoxicated  her  who  was  to  wear  them.  I'm  think- 
ing Daniel  Dyce  lived  simply  then,  with  rather  make- 
shift dinners,  but  I'm  certain,  knowing  him  well,  he  did 
not  care,  since  his  share  in  the  great  adventure  was  to 
correspond  with  Edinburgh  and  pave  the  way  there 
for  the  young  adventurer's  invasion. 

He  would  keek  in  at  the  door  on  them  as  he  passed 
to  his  office,  and  Ailie  would  cry,  "Avaunt,  man!  here 
woman  reigns!"  "It's  a  pleasant  change,"  he  would 
say.  "I  would  sooner  have  them  rain  than  storm." 

"You're  as  bad  as  Geordie  Jordon,"  said  Miss  Bell, 
biting  thread  with  that  zest  that  always  makes  me 
think  her  sex  at  some  time  must  have  lived  on  cotton 
— "you're  as  bad  as  Geordie  Jordon:  you  cannot  see  a 
key-hole  but  your  eye  begins  to  water." 

If  it  had,  indeed,  been  Bud's  trousseau,  the  townfolk 
could  not  have  displayed  more  interest.  Ladies  came 
each  day  to  see  how  things  progressed  and  recommend 
a  heavier  lining  or  another  row  of  the  insertion.  Even 
Lady  Anne  came  one  afternoon  to  see  the  trousseau, 
being  interested,  as  she  slyly  said,  in  such  things  for 
private  reasons  of  her  own,  and  dubious  about  the 

246 


BUD 

rival  claims  of  ivory  or  pure  white.  So  she  said,  but 
she  came,  no  doubt,  to  assure  Miss  Lennox  that  her 
captain  was  a  great  success. 

"I  knew  he'd  be!"  said  Bud,  complacently.  "That 
man's  so  beautiful  and  good  he's  fit  for  the  kingdom 
of  heaven." 

"So  are  you,  you  rogue,"  said  Lady  Anne,  gathering 
her  in  her  arms,  without  a  bit  of  awkwardness,  to  the 
great  astonishment  of  'Lizbeth  Ann,  who  thought  that 
titled  folk  were  not  a  bit  like  that — perhaps  had  not 
the  proper  sort  of  arms  for  it.  "Yes,  so  are  you,  you 
rogue!"  said  Lady  Anne. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  the  child.  "Leastways  only 
sometimes.  Most  the  time  I'm  a  born  limb,  but  then 
again  I'm  nearly  always  trying  to  be  better,  and  that's 
what  counts,  I  guess." 

"And  you're  going  away  to  leave  us,"  said  Lady 
Anne,  whereon  a  strange  thing  happened,  for  the 
joyous  child,  who  was  to  get  her  heart's  desire  and 
such  lovely  garments,  burst  into  tears  and  ran  from 
the  room  to  hide  herself  up-stairs  in  the  attic  bower, 
whose  windows  looked  to  a  highway  that  seemed 
hateful  through  her  tears.  Her  ladyship  went  off  dis- 
tressed, but  Bell,  as  one  rejoicing,  said: 

"I  always  told  you,  Ailie — William's  heart!" 

But  Bud's  tears  were  transient;  she  was  soon  back 
among  the  snippets  where  Ailie  briskly  plied  the 
sewing-machine  and  sang  the  kind  of  cheerful  songs 
that  alone  will  go  to  the  time  of  pedalling,  and  so  give 
proof  that  the  age  of  mechanism  is  the  merry  age  if  we 
have  the  happy  ear  for  music.  And  Bud,  though  she 
tired  so  soon  of  hems,  could  help  another  way  that 
busy  convocation,  for  she  could  sit  tucked  up  in 
Uncle  Dan's  snoozing  chair,  and  read  Pickwick  to  the 

247 


BUD 

women  till  the  maid  of  Colonsay  was  in  the  mood  to 
take  the  Bardell  body  by  the  hair  of  the  head  and 
shake  her  for  her  brazenness  to  the  poor  wee  man. 
Or  the  child  would  dance  as  taught  by  the  lady  of  the 
Vaudeville,  or  start  at  Ailie's  bidding  (Bell  a  little 
dubious)  to  declaim  a  bit  of  "Hamlet"  or  "Macbeth," 
till  'Lizbeth  Ann  saw  ghosts  and  let  her  nerves  get  the 
better  of  her,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  a  cheery 
cup  of  tea  all  round.  Indeed,  I  must  confess,  a  some- 
what common  company!  I  could  almost  wish  for  the 
sake  of  my  story  they  were  more  genteel,  and  dined 
at  half-past  seven  and  talked  in  low,  hushed  tones  of 
Bach  and  Botticelli. 

But  oh!  they  were  happy  days — at  least  so  far  as 
all  outward  symptoms  went;  it  might,  indeed,  have 
been  a  real  trousseau  and  not  the  garments  for  the 
wedding  of  a  maiden  and  the  world.  How  often,  in 
the  later  years,  did  Winifred  Wallace,  reading  to  me 
her  own  applause  in  newspapers,  stop  to  sigh  and  tell 
me  how  she  once  was  really  happv — happy  to  the  in- 
ward core,  feeling  the  dumb  applause  of  four  women 
in  a  country  chamber  when  the  world  was  all  before 
her  and  her  heart  was  young? 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WORKING  thus,  furiously,  at  the  task  of  love, 
which,  in  all  it  does  for  the  youth  it  cherishes, 
must  ever  be  digging  a  grave  for  its  own  delight,  Bell 
could  forget,  for  periods,  that  the  days  of  Bud's  pres- 
ence in  their  midst  were  numbered.  Had  she  stopped 
her  needle  and  shears  a  moment  and  let  her  mind 
contemplate  all  the  emptiness  of  a  fortnight  hence, 
and  the  months  and  years  thereafter,  she  would  have 
broken  down.  Ailie,  knowing  it,  watched  her  anx- 
iously, and  kept  the  sewing  briskly  going  as  if  they 
wrought  for  a  living  in  a  factory,  frightened  to  think 
of  her  sister's  desperate  state  when  that  last  button, 
that  the  armies  talk  about,  was  in  its  place. 

But  the  days  sped;  one  afternoon  there  was  a  final 
sweeping  up  of  the  scraps  in  the  temporary  work-room, 
Bell  searched  her  mind  in  vain  to  think  of  anything 
further  wanted,  and,  though  there  was  still  a  week  to 
go,  became  appalled  to  find  that  the  only  thing  of 
any  moment  to  be  done  'twixt  now  and  Friday  fort- 
night was  to  say  good-bye. 

No,  stay!  there  was  another  thing  to  bring  a  little 
respite — the  girl's  initials  must  be  sewn  upon  her 
clothing.  A  trivial  thing  to  mention,  you  may  think, 
but  the  very  thought  of  it  gave  pleasure  to  the  sisters, 
till  Bud  herself,  sent  to  Miss  Minto's  for  a  sample  of 
the  woven  letters,  came  back  with  only  one — it  was  a  W. 

249 


BUD 

"  Has  the  stupid  body  not  got  L's  and  D's?"  asked 
Bell.  "There's  no  use  here  for  W."  And  Bud  showed 
a  countenance  startled  and  ashamed. 

"Oh,  Auntie!"  she  cried.  "I  asked  for  W's.  I  quite 
forgot  my  name  was  Lennox  Dyce,  for  in  all  I'm  think- 
ing of  about  the  school  and  Edinburgh,  I  am  Winifred 
Wallace." 

It  was  all  that  was  needed  to  bring  about  her  aunt's 
prostration.  "I'm  far  from  well,"  said  she,  and  took 
to  her  bed,  her  first  confession  of  weakness  in  all  the 
years  that  Dan  or  Ailie  could  remember.  What  ailed 
her  she  could  not  tell,  and  they  sent,  without  acquaint- 
ing her,  for  Dr.  Brash.  Hearing  he  was  coming,  she 
protested  that  she  could  not  see  the  man;  that  she 
was  far  too  ill  to  be  troubled  by  any  doctor;  but  Dr. 
Brash  was  not  so  easily  to  be  denied. 

"H'm!"  said  he,  examining  her;  "you're  system's 
badly  down." 

"I  never  knew  I  had  one,"  said  the  lady,  smiling 
wanly,  with  a  touch  of  Dan's  rowan -jelly  humor. 
"Women  had  no  system  in  my  young  days  to  go  up 
or  down;  if  they  had  they  were  ashamed  to  mention 
it.  Nowadays  it  seems  as  fashionable  as  what  Kate, 
since  she  got  her  education,  calls  the  boil." 

"You  have  been  worrying,"  he  went  on,  "a  thing 
that's  dreadfully  injudicious.  H'm!  worse  than  drink 
7  say.  Worry's  the  death  of  half  my  patients;  they 
never  give  my  pills  a  chance. ' '  And  there  was  a  twinkle 
in  his  eyes  which  most  of  Dr.  Brash's  patients  thought 
was  far  more  efficacious  than  his  pills. 

"What  would  I  worry  for?"  said  Miss  Bell.  "I'm 
sure  I  have  every  blessing:  goodness  and  mercy  all 
my  life." 

"Just  so!  Just  so!"  said  Dr.  Brash.  "Goodness 
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and — and,  h'm! — mercy  sometimes  take  the  form  of 
a  warning  that  it's  time  we  kept  to  bed  for  a  week, 
and  that's  what  I  recommend  you." 

"Mercy  on  me!  Am  I  so  far  through  as  that?"  she 
said,  alarmed.  "It's  something  serious — I  know  by 
the  cheerful  face  that  you  put  on  yoii.  Little  did  I 
think  that  I  would  drop  off  so  soon.  And  just  at  the 
very  time  when  there's  so  much  to  do!" 

"Pooh!"  said  Dr.  Brash.  "When  you  drop  off, 
Miss  Dyce,  there'll  be  an  awful  dunt,  I'm  telling  you. 
God  bless  my  soul,  what  do  you  think  a  doctor's  for 
but  putting  folk  on  their  pins  again!  A  week  in  bed 
— and — h'm! — a  bottle.  Everything's  in  the  bottle, 
mind  you!" 

"And  there's  the  hands  of  the  Almighty,  too,"  said 
Bell,  who  constantly  deplored  the  doctor  was  so  poor 
a  kirk  attender,  and  not  a  bit  in  that  respect  like  the 
noble  doctors  in  her  sister's  latest  Scottish  novels. 

Dr.  Brash  went  out  of  the  room  to  find  the  rest 
of  the  household  sorely  put  about  in  the  parlor:  Len- 
nox an  object  of  woe,  and  praying  hard  to  herself  with 
as  much  as  she  could  remember  of  her  uncle  Dan's 
successful  supplication  for  herself  when  she  had  the 
pneumonia.  To  see  the  cheerfulness  of  his  counte- 
nance when  he  came  in  was  like  the  sunburst  on  a 
leaden  sea.  "Miss  Bell's  as  sound  as  her  namesake," 
he  assured  them.  "There's  been  something  on  her 
mind" — with  a  flash  of  the  eye,  at  once  arrested,  tow- 
ards Lennox — "and  she  has  worked  herself  into  a 
state  of  nervous  collapse.  I've  given  her  the  best  of 
tonics  for  her  kind — the  dread  of  a  week  in  bed — and 
I'll  wager  she'll  be  up  by  Saturday.  The  main  thing 
is  to  keep  her  cheerful,  and  I  don't  think  that  should 
be  very  difficult." 

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Bud  there  and  then  made  up  her  mind  that  her 
own  true  love  was  Dr.  Brash,  in  spite  of  his  nervous 
sisters  and  his  funny  waistcoats.  Ailie  said  if  cheer- 
fulness would  do  the  thing  she  was  ready  for  laughing- 
gas,  and  the  lawyer  vowed  he  would  rake  the  town  for 
the  very  latest  chronicles  of  its  never-ending  fun. 

But  Bud  was  long  before  him  on  her  mission  of 
cheerfulness  to  the  bedroom  of  Auntie  Bell.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  douce  Scotch  lass  who  never  in  her  life  had 
harbored  the  idea  that  her  native  hamlet  was  other 
than  the  finest  dwelling-place  in  all  the  world,  and 
would  be  happy  never  to  put  a  foot  outside  it  ? — that 
was  to  be  the  r61e  to-day.  A  sober  little  lass,  sitting 
in  a  wicker-chair  whose  faintest  creak  appeared  to  put 
her  in  an  agony — sitting  incredibly  long  and  still, 
and  speaking  Scotch  when  spoken  to,  in  the  most  care- 
ful undertone,  with  a  particular  kind  of  smile  that 
was  her  idea  of  judicious  cheerfulness  for  a  sick-room. 

"Bairn!"  cried  her  aunt  at  last,  "if  you  sit  much 
longer  like  that  you'll  drive  me  crazy.  What  in  the 
world's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Nothing,  dear  Auntie  Bell,"  said  Bud,  astonished. 

"You  needn't  tell  me!  What  was  the  doctor  say- 
ing?" 

"He  said  you  were  to  be  kept  cheerful,"  said  Bud, 
"and  I'm  doing  the  best  I  can — 

"Bless  me,  lass!  do  you  think  it's  cheery  to  be  sitting 
there  with  a  face  like  an  old  Geneva  watch  ?  I  would 
sooner  see  you  romping," 

But  no,  Bud  could  not  romp  that  day,  and  when 
her  uncle  Dan  came  up  he  found  her  reading  aloud 
from  Bell's  favorite  Gospel  according  to  John — her 
auntie's  way  of  securing  the  cheerfulness  required. 
He  looked  at  the  pair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 

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shoulders  bent,  and  all  the  joviality  with  which  he 
had  come  carefully  charged  gave  place  for  a  little  to 
a  graver  sentiment.  So  had  Ailie  sat,  a  child,  beside 
her  mother  on  her  death-bed,  and,  reading  John  one 
day,  found  open  some  new  vista  in  her  mind  that  made 
her  there  and  then  renounce  her  dearest  visions,  and 
thirl  herself  forever  to  the  home  and  him  and  Bell. 

"Well,  Dan,"  said  his  sister,  when  the  child  was 
gone,  "what  have  you  brought  me?  Is  it  the  usual 
pound  of  grapes?"  —  for  she  was  of  the  kind  whose 
most  pious  exercises  never  quench  their  sense  of  fun, 
and  a  gift  of  grapes  in  our  place  is  a  doleful  hint  to 
folks  bedridden;  I  think  they  might  as  well  bring  in 
the  stretching-board. 

"A  song-book  would  suit  you  better,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "What  do  you  think's  the  matter  with  you? 
Worrying  about  that  wean!  Is  this  your  Christian 
resignation?" 

"I  am  not  worrying,  Dan,"  she  protested.  "At 
least,  not  very  much,  and  I  never  was  the  one  to  make 
much  noise  about  my  Christianity." 

"You  need  to  be  pretty  noisy  with  it  nowadays  to 
make  folk  believe  you  mean  it." 

"What  did  Dr.  Brash  say  down  the  stair ?"  she  asked. 
"Does  he — does  he  think  I'm  going  to  die?" 

"Lord  bless  me,"  cried  her  brother,  "this  is  not  the 
way  that  women  die.  I  never  heard  of  you  having 
a  broken  heart.  You're  mis«ing  all  the  usual  pre- 
liminaries, and  you  haven't  even  practised  being  ill. 
No,  no,  Bell;  it  '11  be  many  a  day,  I  hope,  before  you're 
pushing  up  the  daisies,  as  that  vagabond  Wanton 
Wully  puts  it." 

Bell  sighed.     "You're  very  joco,"  said  she — "you're 
aye  cheery,  whatever  happens." 
'7  253 


BUD 

"'So  long  as  it  doesn't  happen  to  myself — that's 
philosophy;  at  least  it's  Captain  Consequence's.  And 
if  I'm  cheery  to-day  it's  by  the  doctor's  orders.  He 
says  you're  to  be  kept  from  fretting  even  if  we  have  to 
hire  the  band." 

"Then  I  doubt  I'm  far,  far  through!"  said  Bell. 
"I'm  booked  for  a  better  land."  And  at  that  the 
lawyer  gave  a  chirruping  little  laugh,  and  said: 

"Are  you  sure  it's  not  for  Brisbane?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  him,  marvellously 
interested  for  one  who  talked  of  dying. 

"It's  a  new' one,"  he  explained.  "I  had  it  to-day 
from  her  ladyship's  captain.  He  was  once  on  a  ship 
that  sailed  to  Australia,  and  half-way  out  a  passenger 
took  very  ill.  'That  one's  booked  for  heaven,  any- 
way,' Maclean  said  to  the  purser.  'No,'  said  the  pur- 
ser, who  was  busy;  'he's  booked  for  Brisbane.'  'Then 
he  would  be  a  damned  sight  better  in  heaven,'  said  Mac- 
lean. '  I  have  been  twice  in  Brisbane,  and  I  know.' " 

Bell  did  her  best  to  restrain  a  smile,  but  couldn't. 
"Oh,  Dan!"  said  she,  "you're  an  awful  man!  You 
think  there's  nothing  in  this  world  to  daunten  any- 
body." 

"Not  if  they  happen  to  be  Dyces,"  said  he.  "A 
high  heart  and  a  humble  head — you  remember  father's 
motto  ?  And  here  you're  dauntened  because  the  young 
one's  going  only  one  or  two  hundred  miles  away  for 
her  own  advantage."  . 

"I'm  not  a  bit  dauntened,"  .said  Miss  Bell,  with 
spirit.  "It's  not  myself  I'm  thinking  of  at  all;  it's 
her,  poor  thing!  among  strangers  night  and  day; 
damp  sheets,  maybe,  and  not  a  wiselike  thing  to  eat. 
You  would  never  forgive  yourself  if  she  fell  into  a  de- 
cline." 

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"  Ailie  throve  pretty  well  on  their  dieting,"  he  point- 
ed out;  "and  if  she's  going  to  fall  into  a  decline,  she's 
pretty  long  of  starting." 

"But  you  mind  they  gave  her  sago  pudding,"  said 
Miss  Bell;  "and  if  there's  one  thing  Lennox  cannot 
eat  it's  sago  pudding.  She  says  it  is  so  slippy,  every 
spoonful  disappears  so  sudden  it  gives  her  an  awful 
start.  She  says  she  might  as  well  sup  puddocks." 

Dan  smiled  at  the  picture  and  forced  himself  to 
silent  patience. 

"And  they'll  maybe  let  her  sit  up  to  all  hours," 
Bell  proceeded.  "You  know  the  way  she  fastens  on 
a  book  at  bedtime!" 

"Well,  well!"  said  he,  emphatically.  "If  you're 
sure  that  things  are  to  be  so  bad  as  that,  we'll  not  let 
her  go  at  all,"  and  he  slyly  scanned  her  countenance, 
to  see,  as  he  expected,  that  she  was  indignant  at  the 
very  thought  of  backing  out,  now  that  they  had  gone 
so  far. 

"You  needn't  start  to  talk  nonsense,"  said  she; 
"of  course  she's  going;  but  oh,  Dan!  it's  not  the 
sheets,  nor  food,  nor  anything  like  that  that  troubles 
me;  it's  the  knowledge  that  she'll  never  be  the  same 
wee  lass  again." 

"Tuts!"  said  Daniel  Dyce,  and  cleaned  some  moist- 
ure from  his  spectacles.  "You're  putting  all  the 
cheerful  things  I  was  going  to  say  to  you  out  of  my 
head.  I'm  off  to  business.  Is  there  anything  I  can 
do  for  you  ?  No  ?  Then  remember,  you're  not  to  stir 
this  week  outside  the  blankets ;  these  are  the  orders  of 
Dr.  Brash.  I  have  no  doubt  Ailie  will  do  very  well  at 
the  housekeeping,"  and  he  left  her  with  a  gleam  of 
mischief  in  his  eye. 

The  window  of  the  bedroom  was  a  little  open;  on 

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one  of  the  trees  a  blackbird  sang,  and  there  came  in 
the  scent  of  apple-ringie  and  a  tempting  splendor  of 
sun.  For  twenty  minutes  the  ailing  body  tried  to 
content  herself  with  the  thought  of  a  household  man- 
aged by  Alison  Dyce,  and  then  arose  to  see  if  Wully 
Oliver  was  not  idling  in  the  garden.  She  saw  him 
sitting  on  his  barrow-trams,  while  Ailie  walked  among 
the  dahlias  and  chucked  her  favorites  of  them  under 
their  chins. 

"William  Oliver!"  cried  Miss  Bell,  indignantly,  hav- 
ing thrown  a  Shetland  shawl  about  her;  "is  that  all 
the  work  you  can  do  in  a  day?" 

He  looked  up  at  the  window,  and  slowly  put  his 
pipe  in  his  pocket. 

"Well,  m'em,"  said  he.  "I  dare  say  I  could  do 
more,  but  I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  for  showing 
off." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WHEN  Miss  Bell  rose,  as  she  did  in  a  day  or  two, 
bantered  into  a  speedy  convalescence  by  Ailie 
and  Dan,  it  was  to  mark  Bud's  future  holidays  on 
the  calendar,  and  count  the  months  in  such  a  cunning 
way  that  she  cheated  the  year  of  a  whole  one  by 
arguing  to  herself  that  the  child  would  be  gone  a  fort- 
night before  they  really  missed  her,  and  as  good  as 
home  again  whenever  she  started  packing  to  return. 
And  Edinburgh,  when  one  was  reasonable  and  came 
to  think  of  it,  was  not  so  very  awful;  the  Miss  Birds 
were  there,  in  the  next  street  to  the  school  where  Bud 
was  bound  for,  so  if  anything  should  happen  —  a 
fire,  for  instance — fires  were  desperately  common  just 
now  in  the  newspapers,  and  ordinary  common-sense 
suggested  a  whole  clothes-rope  for  the  tying  up  of 
the  young  adventurer's  boxes;  or  if  Bud  should 
happen  to  be  really  hungry  between  her  usual  meals 
— a  common  thing  with  growing  bairns — the  Birds 
were  the  very  ones  to  make  her  welcome.  It  was 
many  a  year  since  Bell  had  been  in  Edinburgh — she 
had  not  been  there  since  mother  died;  she  was  de- 
termined that  if  she  had  the  money,  and  was  spared 
till  Martinmas,  she  should  make  a  jaunt  of  it  and  see 
the  -shops:  it  was  very  doubtful  if  Miss  Minto  wasn't 
often  lamentably  out  of  date  with  many  of  her  fash- 
ions. 

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"Oh,  you  vain  woman!"  cried  Ailie  to  her;  "will 
nothing  but  the  very  latest  satisfy  you?" 

Bud  was  to  be  sure  and  write  once  every  week,  on 
any  day  but  Saturday,  for  if  her  letters  came  on  Sun- 
day they  would  be  tempted  to  call  at  the  post-office 
for  them,  like  Captain  Consequence,  instead  of  waiting 
till  the  Monday  morning.  And  if  she  had  a  cold,  or 
any  threatening  of  quinsy,  she  was  to  fly  for  her  very 
life  to  the  horehound  mixture,  put  a  stocking  round 
her  neck,  and  go  to  bed.  Above  all  was  she  to  mind 
and  take  her  porridge  every  morning,  and  to  say  her 
prayers. 

"I'll  take  porridge  to  beat  the  band,"  Bud  promised, 
"even — even  if  I  have  to  shut  my  eyes  all  through." 

"In  a  cautious  moderation,"  recommended  Uncle 
Dan.  "I  think  myself  oatmeal  is  far  too  rich  a  diet 
for  the  blood.  I  have  it  from  Captain  Consequence 
that  there's  nothing  for  breakfast  like  curried  kidney 
and  a  chop  to  follow.  But  I  hope  you'll  understand 
that,  apart  from  the  carnal  appetites,  the  main  thing 
is  to  scoop  in  all  the  prizes.  I'll  be  dreadfully  disap- 
pointed if  you  come  back  disgraced,  with  anything  less 
of  them  than  the  full  of  a  cart.  That,  I  believe,  is  the 
only  proof  of  a  Scottish  liberal  education.  In  Ailie's 
story-books  it's  all  the  good,  industrious,  and  deserving 
pupils  who  get  everything.  Of  course,  if  you  take 
all  the  prizes  somebody's  sure  to  want — but,  tuts!  I 
would  never  let  that  consideration  vex  me — it's  their 
own  lookout.  If  you  don't  take  prizes,  either  in  the 
school  or  in  the  open  competition  of  the  world,  how 
are  folk  to  know  they  should  respect  you?" 

"You  must  have  been  a  wonderfully  successful  stu- 
dent in  your  day,"  said  Ailie,  mischievously.  "Where 
are  all  your  medals?" 

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Dan  laughed.  "It's  ill  to  say,"  said  he,  "for  the 
clever  lads  who  won  them  when  I  wasn't  looking 
have  been  so  modest  ever  since  that  they've  clean 
dropped  out  of  sight.  I  never  won  anything  myself 
in  all  my  life  that  called  for  competition — except  the 
bottom  of  the  class!  When  it  came  to  competitions, 
and  I  could  see  the  other  fellows'  faces,  I  was  always 
far  too  tired  or  well  disposed  to  them  to  give  them 
a  disappointment  which  they  seemingly  couldn't  stand 
so  well  as  myself.  But  then  I'm  not  like  Bud  here. 
I  hadn't  a  shrewd  old  uncle  egging  me  on.  So  you 
must  be  keen  on  the  prizes,  Bud.  Of  course,  there's 
wisdom,  too,  but  that  comes  later — there's  no  hurry  for 
it.  Prizes,  prizes — remember  the  prizes;  the  more  you 
win,  the  more,  I  suppose,  I'll  admire  you." 

"And  if  I  don't  win  any,  Uncle  Dan?"  said  Bud, 
slyly,  knowing  very  well  the  nature  of  his  fun. 

"Then,  I  suppose,  I'll  have  to  praise  the  Lord  if  you 
keep  your  health,  and  just  continue  loving  you,"  said 
the  lawyer.  "I  admit  that  if  you're  anyway  addicted 
to  the  prizes  you'll  be  the  first  of  your  name  that  was 
so.  In  that  same  school  in  Edinburgh,  your  auntie 
Ailie's  quarterly  reports  had  always,  'Conduct — Good' 
and  'Mathematics  —  Fairly  moderate.'  We  half  ex- 
pected she  was  coming  back  an  awful  diffy;  but  if  she 
did,  she  made  a  secret  of  it.  I  forgave  her  the  'Fairly 
moderate '  myself,  seeing  she  had  learned  one  thing — 
how  to  sing.  I  hope  you'll  learn  to  sing,  Bud,  in 
French  or  German  or  Italian  —  anything  but  Scotch. 
Our  old  Scotch  songs,  I'm  told,  are  not  what's  called 
artistic." 

"The  sweetest  in  the  world!"  cried  Auntie  Bell.  "I 
wonder  to  hear  you  haivering." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  not  a  judge  of  music,"  said  the 
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BUD 

brother.  "Scotch  songs  are  very  common — everybody 
knows  them.  There's  no  art  in  them,  there's  only 
heart  —  a  trifling  kind  of  quality.  If  you  happen  to 
hear  me  singing  '  Annie  Laurie '  or  '  Af ton  Water  '  after 
you  come  home,  Bud,  be  sure  and  check  me.  I  want 
to  be  no  discredit  to  you." 

"No,  I  sha'n't,  Uncle  Dan,"  said  the  child.  "I'll 
sing  'Mary  Morison'  and  'Ae  Fond  Kiss'  and  'Jock 
o'Hazeldean'  at  you  till  you're  fairly  squealing  with 
delight.  7  know.  Allow  me!  Why,  you're  only  hai- 
vering." 

"Have  mercy  on  the  child,  Dan,"  said  his  sister. 
"Never  you  mind  him,  Bud,  he's  only  making  fun  of 
you." 

"I  know,"  said  Bud;  "but  I'm  not  kicking." 

Kate — ah,  poor  Kate! — how  sorry  I  should  be  for 
her,  deserted  by  her  friend  and  tutor  if  she  had  not 
her  own  consoling  captain.  Kate  would  be  weeping 
silently  every  time  the  pipe  was  on  in  the  scullery 
and  she  thought  how  lonely  her  kitchen  was  to  be 
when  the  child  was  gone.  And  she  had  plans  to  make 
that  painful  exile  less  heart-rending:  she  was  going  to 
write  to  her  sister  out  in  Colonsay,  and  tell  her  to  be 
sure  and  send  fresh  country  eggs  at  intervals  of  every 
now  and  then,  or  maybe  oftener  in  the  winter- time,  to 
Lennox,  for  the  genuine  country  egg  was  a  thing  it  was 
hopeless  to  expect  in  Edinburgh,  where  there  wasn't 
such  a  thing  as  sand  or  grass  or  heather — only  cause- 
way stones.  She  could  assure  Lennox  that,  as  for 
marriage,  there  was  not  the  slightest  risk  for  years  and 
years,  since  there  wasn't  a  house  in  the  town  to  let 
that  would  be  big  enough  (and  still  not  dear)  to  suit 
a  captain.  He  was  quite  content  to  be  a  plain  in- 
tended, and  hold  on.  And  as  for  writing,  she  would 

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BUD  • 

take  her  pen  in  hand  quite  often  and  send  the  latest 
news  to  Lennox,  who  must  please  excuse  haste  and 
these  d-d-desperate  pens,  and  having  the  post  to 
catch — not  that  she  would  dream  of  catching  the  poor, 
wee,  shauchly  creature;  it  was  just  a  way  of  speaking. 
Would  Lennox  not  be  so  dreadful  homesick,  missing 
all  the  cheery  things,  and  smothered  up  in  books  in 
yon  place — Edinburgh? 

"I  expect  I'll  be  dre'ffle  home'sick,"  admitted  Bud. 

"I'm  sure  you  will,  my  lassie,"  said  the  maid.  "I 
was  so  homesick  myself  when  I  came  here  at  first  that 
my  feet  got  almost  splay  with  wanting  to  turn  back 
to  Colonsay.  But  if  I'm  not  so  terribly  good-looking, 
I'm  awful  brave,  and  soon  got  over  it.  When  you  are 
homesick  go  down  to  the  quay  and  look  at  the  steam- 
boats or  take  a  turn  at  our  old  friend  Mr.  Puckwuck." 

Four  days — three  days — two  days — one  day — to- 
morrow; that  last  day  went  so  fast  it  looked  as  if 
Wanton  Wully  had  lost  the  place  again  and  rang  the 
evening  bell  some  hours  before  it  was  due.  Bud 
could  only  sit  by,  helpless,  and  marvel  at  the  ingenu- 
ity that  could  be  shown  in  packing  what  looked  enough 
to  stock  Miss  Minto's  shop  into  a  couple  of  boxes. 
She  aged  a  twelvemonth  between  the  hand-glass  at 
the  bottom  and  the  bath-sheet  on  the  top. 

"And  in  this  corner,"  said  Miss  Bell,  on  her  knees, 
"you'll  find  your  Bible,  the  horehound  mixture,  and 
five-and-twenty  threepenny  bits  for  the  plate  on  Sun- 
days— some  of  them  sixpences." 

"Irish  ones,  apparently,"  said  Uncle  Dan. 

"Some  of  them  sixpences,  for  the  Foreign  Mission 
days,  and  one  shilling  for  the  day  of  the  Highlands 
and  Islands." 

"You're  well  provided  for  the  kirk,  at  any  rate,"  said 
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•  BUD 

Uncle  Dan.     "I'll  have  to  put  a  little  money  for  this 
wicked  world  in  the  other  corner."     And  he  did. 

When  the  coach  next  day  set  out —  No,  no,  I  can- 
not tell  you  all,  for  I  hate  to  think  of  tears  and  would 
hurry  over  partings.  It  went  in  tearful  weather,  rain 
drizzling  on  Bud  and  Auntie  Ailie,  who  accompanied 
her.  They  looked  back  on  the  hill-top  and  saw  the 
gray  slates  glint  under  a  gray  sky,  and  following  them 
on  the  miry  road  poor  Footles,  faithful  heart,  who 
did  not  understand.  He  paddled  through  the  mud 
till  a  blast  from  the  bugle  startled  him,  and  he  seemed 
to  realize  that  this  was  some  painful  new  experience. 
And  then  he  stood  in  the  track  of  the  disappearing 
wheels  and  lifted  up  his  voice  in  lamentation. 

The  night  came  on,  resuming  her  ancient  empire — for 
she  alone,  and  not  the  day,  did  first  possess,  and  finally 
shall  possess  unquestioned,  this  space  dusty  with  tran- 
sient stars,  and  the  light  is  Lord  of  another  universe 
where  is  no  night,  nay,  nor  terror  thereof.  From  the 
western  clouds  were  the  flame  and  gold  withdrawn, 
and  the  winds  sighed  from  the  mountains  as  vexed 
for  passing  days.  The  winds  sighed  from  the  moun- 
tains and  the  mists  came  mustering  to  the  glens; 
the  sea  crept  out  on  long,  bird-haunted,  wailing,  and 
piping  sands,  naught  to  be  seen  of  it,  its  presence  ob- 
vious only  in  the  scent  of  wrack  and  the  wash  on  the 
pebbled  beaches.  Behind  the  town  the  woods  lay 
black  and  haunted,  and  through  them,  and  far  upward 
in  the  valley  dripping  in  the  rain,  and  clamorous  with 
hidden  burns  and  secret  wells,  went  the  highway  to 
the  world,  vacant  of  aught  visible,  but  never  to  be 
wholly  vacant,  since  whoso  passes  on  a  highway  ever 
after  leaves  some  wandering  spirit  there.  Did  the 

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child,  that  night,  think  of  the  highway  that  had  car- 
ried her  from  home?  In  the  hoarsely  crying  city  did 
she  pause  a  moment  to  remember  and  retrace  her  way 
to  the  little  town  that  now  lay  faintly  glowing  in  the 
light  of  its  own  internal  fires? 

Thus  Bell  wondered,  standing  at  her  window  look- 
ing into  the  solitary  street.  Every  mile  of  separating 
highway  rose  before  her;  she  walked  them  in  the  rain 
and  dark ;  all  the  weary  longing  of  the  world  came  down 
on  her  that  mirk  night  in  September,  and,  praying 
that  discretion  should  preserve  and  understanding  keep 
her  wanderer,  she  arrived  at  the  soul's  tranquility  and 
heard  without  misgiving  the  wild  geese  cry. 

Her  brother  took  the  Books,  and  the  three  of  them 
— master,  mistress,  and  maid — were  one  in  the  spirit 
of  worship,  longing,  and  hope.  Where,  then,  had  gone 
Daniel  Dyce,  the  lawyer,  the  gentle  ironist,  on  whose 
lips  so  often  was  kindly  mockery,  on  whose  tongue 
levity  or  its  pretence — 

"Never  by  passion  quite  possess'd, 
And  never  quite  benumbed  by  the  world's  sway  "  ? 

It  was  Bell's  nightly  duty  to  turn  the  lamp  out  in 
the  lobby  and  bolt  the  outer  door.  She  went  this  night 
reluctant  to  perform  that  office,  but  a  thought  pos- 
sessed her  of  a  child  from  home,  somewhere  in  the  dark- 
ness among  strangers,  and  she  had  to  call  her  brother. 

"What  is  it?"  said  he. 

"The  door,"  she  said,  ashamed  of  herself;  "I  can- 
not bolt  it." 

He  looked  at  her  flushed  face  and  her  trembling  hand 
and  understood.  "It's  only  the  door  of  a  house," 
said  he;  "that  makes  no  difference,"  and  ran  the  bolt 
into  its  staple. 

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CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FOR  all  the  regrets  of  increasing  age  there  is  one 
alleviation  among  many,  that  days  apart  from 
those  we  love  pass  the  quicker,  even  as  our  hurrying 
years.  Thus  it  is  that  separations  are  divested  of 
more  and  more  of  their  terrors  the  nearer  we  are  to 
that  final  parting  which  wipes  out  all  and  is  but  the 
going  to  a  great  reunion.  So  the  first  fortnight, 
whereof  Miss  Bell  thought  to  cheat  the  almanac  under 
the  delusion  that  Bud's  absence  would  then  scarcely 
be  appreciated,  was  in  truth  the  period  when  she  missed 
her  most,  and  the  girl  was  back  for  her  Christmas 
holidays  before  half  of  her  threepenny  bits  for  the 
plate  were  done. 

It  was  worth  a  year  of  separation  to  see  her  come  in 
at  the  door,  rosy  from  the  frosty  air,  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  the  old,  sweet,  rippling  laugh,  not — outside 
at  least — ^an  atom  different  from  the  girl  who  had  gone 
away;  and  it  made  up  to  Bud  herself  for  many  even- 
ings homesick  on  an  Edinburgh  pillow  to  smell  again 
the  old  celestial  Christmas  grocery  and  feel  the  warmth 
of  her  welcome. 

Myself,  I  like  to  be  important — -not  of  such  conse- 
quence to  the  world  as  to  have  it  crick  its  neck  with 
having  to  look  up  at  me,  but  now  and  then  important 
only  to  a  few  old  friends;  and  Bud,  likewise,  could  al- 
ways enjoy  the  upper  seat,  if  the  others  of  her  com- 

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pany  were  never  below  the  salt.  She  basked  in  the 
flattery  that  Kate's  deportment  gave  to  her  dignity 
as  a  young  lady  educated  at  tremendous  cost. 

It  was  the  daft  days  of  her  first  coming  over  again; 
but  this  time  she  saw  all  with  older  eyes — and,  besides, 
the  novelty  of  the  little  Scottish  town  was  ended. 
Wanton  Wully's  bell,  pealing  far  beyond  the  burgh 
bounds — commanding,  like  the  very  voice  of  God,  to 
every  ear  of  that  community,  no  matter  whether  it 
rang  at  morn  or  eve — gave  her  at  once  a  crystal  notion 
of  the  smallness  of  the  place,  not  only  in  its  bounds  of 
stone  and  mortar,  but  in  its  interests,  as  compared 
with  the  city,  where  a  thousand  bells,  canorous  on  the 
Sabbath,  failed,  it  was  said,  to  reach  the  ears  of  more 
than  a  fraction  of  the  people.  The  bell,  and  John 
Taggart's  band  on  hogmanay,  and  the  little  shops 
with  windows  falling  back  already  on  timid  appeals, 
and  the  gray,  high  tenements  pierced  by  narrow  en- 
tries, and  the  douce  and  decent  humdrum  folk — she 
saw  them  with  a  more  exacting  vision,  and  Ailie  laughed 
to  hear  them  all  summed  up  as  "quaint." 

"I  wondered  when  you  would  reach  'quaint,'"  said 
Auntie  Ailie;  "it  was  due  some  time  ago,  but  this  is  a 
house  where  you  never  hear  the  word.  Had  you  re- 
mained at  the  Pige — at  the  Misses  Duff's  Seminary, 
Miss  Amelia  would  have  had  you  sewing  it  on  samplers, 
if  samplers  any  longer  were  the  fashion." 

"Is  it  not  a  nice  word,  'quaint'?"  asked  Bud,  who, 
in  four  months  among  critics  less  tolerant  (and  per- 
haps less  wise)  than  the  Dyces,  had  been  compelled  to 
rid  herself  of  many  transatlantic  terms  and  phrases. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  'quaint,'  my  dear," 
said  Miss  Ailie ;  "  it  moves  in  the  most  exclusive  circles ; 
if  I  noticed  it  particularly,  it  is  because  it  is  the  in- 

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dication  of  a  certain  state  of  mind,  and  tells  me  where 
you  stand  in  your  education  more  clearly  than  your 
first  quarterly  report.  I  came  home  from  school  with 
'quaint'  myself;  it  not  only  seemed  to  save  a  lot  of 
trouble  by  being  a  word  which  could  be  applied  to 
anything  not  otherwise  describable,  but  I  cherished 
it  because  its  use  conferred  on  me  a  kind  of  inward 
glow  of  satisfaction  like — like — like  Aunt  Bell's  home- 
made ginger  cordial.  'Quaint,'  Bud,  is  the  shibboleth 
of  boarding-school  culture ;  when  you  can  use  the  word 
in  the  proper  place,  with  a  sense  of  superiority  to  the 
thing  so  designated,  you  are  practically  a  young  lady 
and  the  polish  is  taking  on." 

"They  all  say  it  in  our  school,"  explained  Bud, 
apologetically;  "at  least  all  except  The  Macintosh — I 
couldn't  think  of  her  saying  it,  somehow." 

"Who's  The  Macintosh?"  asked  Ailie. 

"Why!  was  there  no  Macintosh  in  your  time?"  ex- 
claimed Bud.  "I  thought  she  went  away  back  to 
the — to  the  Roman  period.  She's  the  funniest  old 
lady  in  the  land,  and  comes  twice  a  week  to  teach  us 
dancing  and  deportment.  She's  taught  them  to  most- 
ly all  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  Scotland;  she  taught 
Lady  Anne  and  all  her  brothers  when  they  were  in  St. 
Andrew's." 

"I  never  heard  of  her,"  said  Ailie;  "she  must  be — 
be — be  decidedly  quaint." 

"She's  so  quaint  you'd  think  she'd  be  kept  in  a 
corner  cupboard  with  a  bag  of  camphor  at  the  back 
to  scare  the  moths  away.  She's  a  little  wee  mite,  not 
any  bigger  than  me  —  than  I  —  and  they  say  she's 
seventy  years  old;  but  sometimes  she  doesn't  look  a 
day  more  than  forty-five,  if  it  weren't  for  her  cap  and 
her  two  front  teeth  missing.  She's  got  the  loveliest 

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BUD 

fluffy,  silver  hair — 'pure  white,  like  Mrs.  Molyneux's 
Aunt  Tabitha's  Persian  cat  —  cheeks  like  an  apple, 
hands  as  young  as  yours,  and  when  she  walks  across 
a  room  she  glides  like  this,  so  you'd  think  she  was  a 
cutter  yacht — " 

Bud  sailed  across  the  parlor  to  represent  the  move- 
ment of  The  Macintosh  with  an  action  that  made  her 
aunties  laugh,  and  the  dog  gave  one  short  yelp  of  dis- 
approval. 

"That  was  the  way  that  Grandma  Buntain  walked 
— it  used  to  be  considered  most  genteel,"  said  Bell. 
"They  trained  girls  up  to  it  with  a  back-board  and  a 
book  on  the  top  of  the  head;  but  it  was  out  before  my 
time;  we  just  walked  any  way  in  Barbara  Mushet's 
seminary,  where  the  main  things  were  tambouring 
and  the  catechism." 

"Miss  Macintosh  is  a  real  lady,"  Bud  went  on.  "She's 
got  genuine  old  ancestors.  They  owned  a  Highland 
place  called  Kaims,  and  the  lawyers  have  almost  law- 
yered  it  a'  awa',  she  says,  so  now  she's  simply  got  to 
help  make  a  living  teaching  dancing  and  deportment. 
I  declare  I  don't  know  what  deportment  is  no  more 
than  the  child  unborn,  unless  it's  shutting  the  door  be- 
hind you,  walking  into  a  room  as  if  your  head  and 
your  legs  were  your  own,  keeping  your  shoulders  back, 
and  being  polite  and  kind  to  everybody,  and  I  thought 
folks  'd  do  all  that  without  attending  classes,  unless 
they  were  looney.  Miss  Macintosh  says  they  are  the 
sine  qua  non  and  principal  branches  for  a  well-bred 
young  lady  in  these  low  days  of  clingy  frocks  and 
socialism;  but  the  principal  she  just  smiles  and  gives 
us  another  big  block  of  English  history.  Miss  Mac- 
intosh doesn't  let  on,  but  I  know  she  simply  can't 
stand  English  history,  for  she  tells  us,  spells  between 

267 


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quadrilles,  that  there  hasn't  been  any  history  any- 
where since  the  Union  of  the  Parliaments,  except  the 
Rebellion  of  1745.  But  she  doesn't  call  it  a  rebellion. 
She  calls  it  'yon  affair.'  She's  Scotch!  I  tell  you, 
Auntie  Bell,  you'd  love  to  meet  her!  I  sit,  and  sit, 
and  look  at  her  like — like  a  cat.  She  wears  spectacles, 
just  a  little  clouded,  only  she  doesn't  call  them  spec- 
tacles; she  says  they  are  preserves,  and  that  her  eyes 
are  as  good  as  anybody's.  They're  bright  enough,  I 
tell  you,  for  over  seventy." 

"Indeed,  I  would  like  to  see  the  creature!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Bell.  " She  must  be  an  original !  I'm  sometimes 
just  a  trifle  tired  of  the  same  old  folk  about  me  here — 
I  know  them  all  so  well,  and  all  they're  like  to  do  or 
say,  that  there's  nothing  new  or  startling  to  be  ex- 
pected from  them." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her?"  said  Bud,  quickly; 
"then — then,  some  day  I'll  tell  her,  and  I'll  bet  she'll 
come.  She  dresses  queer — like  a  lady  in  the  'School 
for  Scandal,'  and  wears  long  mittens  like  Miss  Minto, 
and  when  our  music-master,  Herr  Laurent,  is  round 
she  makes  goo-goo  eyes  at  him  fit  to  crack  her  glasses. 
'Oh,  Hair-r-r!'  she  says,  sitting  with  her  mitts  in  her 
lap — 'oh,  Hair-r-r!  Can  you  no'  give  the  young  ladies 
wiselike  Scotch  songs  instead  o'  that  dreich  Concone?' 
And  sometimes  she'll  hit  him  with  a  fan.  He  says 
she  plays  the  piano  to  our  dancing  the  same  as  it  was 
a  spinet." 

"I  declare  it  beats  all!"  said  Miss  Bell.  "Does  the 
decent  old  body  speak  Scotch?" 

"Sometimes.  When  she's  making  goo-goo  eyes  at 
the  Herr,  or  angry,  or  finding  fault  with  us  but  doesn't 
want  to  hurt  our  feelings." 

"I  can  understand  that,"  said  Miss  Bell,  with  a 
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patriot's  fervor;  "there's  nothing  like  the  Scotch  for 
any  of  them.  I  fall  to  it  myself  when  I'm  sentimental; 
and  so  does  your  uncle  Dan." 

"She  says  she's  the  last  of  the  real  Macintoshes — that 
all  the  rest  you  see  on  Edinburgh  signboards  are  only 
in-comers  or  poor  de-degenerate  cadets;  and  I  guess 
the  way  she  says  it,  being  a  de-degenerate  cadet  Mack- 
intosh must  be  the  meanest  thing  under  the  cope  and 
canopy.  Heaps  of  those  old  ancestors  of  hers  went 
out  in  the  days  of  the  clans,  fighting  for  any  royalty 
that  happened  along.  She's  got  all  their  hair  in  lockets, 
and  makes  out  that  when  they  disappeared  Scotland 
got  a  pretty  hard  knock.  I  said  to  her  once  the  same 
as  Aunt  Ailie  says  to  you,  Aunt  Bell,  'English  and 
Scots,  I  s'pose  we're  all  God's  people,  and  it's  a  ter- 
ribly open  little  island  to  be  quarrelling  in,  seeing  all 
the  Continent  can  hear  us  quite  plain,'  but  she  didn't 
like  it.  She  said  it  was  easy  seen  I  didn't  understand 
the  dear  old  Highland  mountains,  where  her  great- 
great-grandfather,  Big  John  of  the  Axe,  could  collect 
five  hundred  fighting-men  if  he  wagged  a  fiery  cross 
at  them.  'I  have  Big  John's  blood  in  me!'  she  said, 
quite  white,  and  her  head  shaking  so  much  her  pre- 
serves nearly  fell  off  her  nose.  'I've  Big  John's  blood 
in  me;  and  when  I  think  of  things,  /  hate  the  very  name 
oj  ihae  aboaminable  English!1  'Why,  you've  never 
seen  them,  Miss  Mackintosh,'  I  said — for  I  knew  she'd 
never  had  a  foot  outside  Scotland.  'No,'  said  she, 
quite  sharp,  'and  I  don't  want  to,  for  they  might 
be  nice  enough,  and  then  I  wad  be  bound  to  like 
them.'  ' 

"Oh,  Bell!"  cried  Ailie,  laughing,  "Miss  Mackintosh 
is  surely  your  doppelganger. " 

"I  don't  know  what  a  doppelganger  is,"  said  Auntie 
is  269 


BUD 

Bell;  "but  she's  a  real  sensible  body,  and  fine  I  would 
like  to  see  her." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  fix  it  somehow,"  said  Bud,  with 
emphasis.  "P'r'aps  you'll  meet  her  when  you  come 
to  Edinburgh — 

"I'm  not  there  yet,  my  dear." 

"Or  she  might  be  round  this  way  by-and-by.  She'd 
revel  in  this  place;  she'd  maybe  not  call  it  quaint,  but 
she'd  find  it  pretty  careless  about  being  in*  the — in 
the  modern  rush  she  talks  about,  and  that  would  make 
her  happier  than  a  letter  from  home.  I  believe  The 
Macintosh — 

"Miss  Macintosh,  my  dear,"  said  Bell,  reprovingly, 
and  the  girl  reddened. 

"7  know,"  said  she.  "It's  mean  to  talk  of  her 
same  as  she  was  a  waterproof,  and  I  often  try  not  to, 
because  I  like  her  immensely;  but  it's  so  common 
among  the  girls  that  I  forget.  I  believe  Miss  Macin- 
tosh would  love  this  place  and  could  stop  in  it  for- 
ever." 

"Couldn't  you?"  asked  Auntie  Ailie,  slyly. 

Bud  hesitated.  "Well,  I — I  like  it,"  said  she.  "I 
just  love  to  lie  awake  nights  and  think  about  it,  and 
I  can  hear  the  wind  in  the  trees  and  the  tide  come  in, 
and  the  bell,  and  the  wild  geese;  and  family  worship 
at  the  Provost's  on  Sunday  nights,  and  I  can  almost 
be  here,  I  think  so  powerfully  about  it;  but — but — 

She  stopped  short,  for  she  saw  a  look  of  pain  in  the 
face  of  her  auntie  Bell. 

"But  what?"  said  the  latter,  sharply. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  wicked,  cruel,  ungrateful  girl,  Auntie 
Bell;  and  I  ought  to  want  to  love  this  place  so  much, 
nobody  could  push  me  out  of  it.  And  I  do  love  it,  but 
feel  if  I  lived  here  always  I'd  not  grow  any  more." 

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BUD 

"You're  big  enough,"  said  Auntie  Bell.  "You're 
as  big  as  myself  now." 

"I  mean  inside.  Am  I  a  prig,  Aunt  Ailie?  I'd 
hate  to  be  a  prig!  But  I'd  hate  as  bad  to  tell  a  lie; 
and  I  feel  I'd  never  learn  half  so  much  or  do  half  so 
much  here  as  I'd  do  where  thousands  of  folk  were 
moving  along  in  a  procession  and  I  was  with  them, 
too.  A  place  like  this  is  like  a  kindergarten — it's 
good  enough  as  far's  it  goes,  but  it  doesn't  teach  the 
higher  branches." 

Bell  gazed  at  her  in  wonder  and  pity  and  blame, 
shaking  her  head.  All  this  was  what  she  had  an- 
ticipated. 

"I  know  the  feeling,"  said  Aunt  Ailie,  "for  I  have 
shared  it  myself;  and  sometimes  still  it  will  come  back 
to  me,  but  in  my  better  hours  I  think  I'm  wiser  and 
can  be  content.  If  there  is  growth  in  you,  you  will 
grow  anywhere.  You  were  born  in  the  noise  of 
Chicago,  Bud,  and  I  suppose  it's  hard  to  get  it  out  of 
the  ears.  By-and-by  I  hope  you'll  find  that  we  are 
all  of  us  most  truly  ourselves,  not  in  the  crowd,  but 
when  we  are  alone,  and  that  not  the  smallest  hamlet 
in  the  world  need  be  intellectually  narrow  for  any  one 
with  imagination,  some  books,  and  a  cheerful  consti- 
tution. Do  you  understand  that,  Bud?" 

Bud  thought  hard  for  a  moment  and  then  shook 
her  head.  "It  sounds  as  if  it  ought  to  be  true,"  said 
she,  "and  I  dare  say  you  think  just  now  it  is  true;  but 
I  simply  can't  believe  it."  And  all  of  them  turned  at 
the  sound  of  a  chuckling  laugh  to  find  that  Mr.  Dyce 
had  heard  this  frank  confession. 

"That's  the  worst  of  you,  Bud,"  said  he.  "You 
will  never  let  older  folk  do  your  thinking  for  you." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IT  is  another  mercy,  too,  that  in  our  age  we  learn  to 
make  the  best  of  what  aforetime  might  be  ill  to 
thole,  as  Bell  made  fine  new  garments  out  of  old  ones 
faded  by  turning  them  outside  in  and  adding  frills 
and  flounces.  Bud's  absence  early  ceased  to  be  de- 
plorable, since  it  wakened  cheerful  expectations  not 
to  be  experienced  had  she  stayed  at  home,  gave  rise 
to  countless  fond  contrivances  for  her  happiness  in 
exile,  and  two  or  three  times  a  year  to  periods  of  bliss, 
when  her  vacations  gave  the  house  of  Dyce  the  very 
flower  of  ecstasy.  Her  weekly  letters  of  themselves 
were  almost  compensation  for  her  absence.  On  the 
days  of  their  arrival  Peter  the  post  would  come  blithely 
whistling  with  his  M.C.  step  to  the  lawyer's  kitchen 
window  before  he  went  to  the  castle  itself,  defying  all 
routine  and  the  laws  of  the  postmaster -general,  for 
he  knew  Miss  Dyce  would  be  waiting  feverishly,  having 
likely  dreamed  the  night  before  of  happy  things  that — 
dreams  going  by  contraries,  as  we  all  of  us  know  in 
Scotland — might  portend  the  most  dreadful  tidings. 

Bud's  envelope  was  always  on  the  top  of  his  budget. 
For  the  sake  of  it  alone  (it  sometimes  seemed  to  Peter 
and  those  who  got  it)  had  the  mail  come  splashing 
through  the  night — the  lawyer's  big  blue  envelopes, 
as  it  were,  had  got  but  a  friendly  lift  through  the 
courtesy  of  clerks  in  Edinburgh,  and  the  men  on  the 

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BUD 

railway  train,  and  the  lad  who  drove  the  gig  from 
Mary  field.  What  were  big  blue  envelopes  of  the  busi- 
ness world  compared  with  the  modest  little  square  of 
gray  with  Lennox  Dyce's  writing  on  it? 

"Here's  the  usual!  Pretty  thick  to-day!"  would 
Peter  say,  with  a  smack  of  satisfaction  on  the  window- 
sash.  Ah,  those  happy  Saturdays!  Everybody  knew 
about  them.  "And  how's  hersel'?"  the  bell-ringer 
would  ask  in  the  by-going,  not  altogether  because  his 
kindly  interest  led  to  an  eye  less  strict  on  his  lazy 
moods  in  the  garden.  One  Fair  day,  when  Maggie 
White's  was  irresistible,  it  rang  so  merrily  with  drovers, 
and  he  lost  the  place  again,  he  stopped  the  lawyer  on 
the  street  to  ask  him  what  Miss  Lennox  thought  of  all 
this  argument  about  the  Churches,  seeing  she  was  in 
the  thick  of  it  in  Edinburgh. 

"Never  you  mind  the  argument,  Will,"  said  Daniel 
Dyce,  "you  do  your  duty  by  the  auld  kirk  bell;  and 
as  for  the  Free  folk's  quarrelling,  amang  them  be't!" 

"But  can  you  tell  me,  Mr.  D-D-Dyce,"  said  Wanton 
Wully,  with  as  much  assurance  as  if  he  was  prepared 
to  pay  by  the  Table  of  Fees,  "what's  the  difference 
between  the  U.F.'s  and  the  Frees?  I've  looked  at  it 
from  every  point,  and  I  canna  see  it." 

"Come  and  ask  me  some  day  when  you're  sober," 
said  the  lawyer,  and  Wanton  Wully  snorted. 

"If  I  was  sober,"  said  he,  "I  wouldna  want  to  ken 
— I  wouldna  give  a  curse." 

Yet  each  time  Bud  came  home  she  seemed,  to  the 
mind  of  her  auntie  Bell,  a  little  further  off  from  them 
— a  great  deal  older,  a  great  deal  less  dependent,  mak- 
ing for  womanhood  in  a  manner  that  sometimes  was 
astounding,  as  when  sober  issues  touched  her,  set  her 
thinking,  made  her  talk  in  fiery  ardors.  Aunt  Ailie 

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BUD 

gloried  in  that  rapid  growth;  Aunt  Bell  lamented,  and 
spoke  of  brains  o'ertaxed  and  fevered,  and  studies 
that  were  dangerous.  She  made  up  her  mind  a  score 
of  times  to  go  herself  to  Edinburgh  and  give  a  warn- 
ing to  the  teachers;  but  the  weeks  passed,  and  the 
months,  and  by-and-by  the  years,  till  almost  three 
were  gone,  and  the  Edinburgh  part  of  Lennox's  edu- 
cation was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  warning  visit 
was  still  to  pay. 

It  was  then,  one  Easter,  came  The  Macintosh. 

Bell  and  Ailie  were  out  that  afternoon  for  their  daily 
walk  in  the  woods  or  along  the  shore,  when  Mr.  Dyce 
returned  from  the  sheriff's  court  alert  and  buoyant, 
feeling  much  refreshed  at  the  close  of  an  encounter 
with  a  lawyer  who,  he  used  to  say,  was  better  at  de- 
bating than  himself,  having  more  law-books  in  his 
possession  and  a  louder  voice.  Letting  himself  in 
with  his  pass-key,  he  entered  the  parlor,  and  was  as- 
tonished to  find  a  stranger,  who  rose  at  his  approach 
and  revealed  a  figure  singular  though  not  unpleasing. 
There  was  something  ludicrous  in  her  manner  as  she 
moved  a  step  or  two  from  the  chair  in  which  she  had 
been  sitting.  Small,  and  silver-gray  in  the  hair,  with 
a  cheek  that  burned — it  must  be  with  embarrassment 
— between  a  rather  sallow  neck  and  sunken  temples, 
and  wearing  smoked  spectacles  with  rims  of  tortoise- 
shell,  she  would  have  attracted  attention  anywhere 
even  if  her  dress  had  been  less  queer.  Queer  it  was,  but 
in  what  manner  Daniel  Dyce  was  not  the  person  to  dis- 
tinguish. To  him  there  was  about  it  nothing  definite- 
ly peculiar,  except  that  the  woman  wore  a  crinoline,  a 
Paisley  shawl  of  silken  white,  and  such  a  bonnet  as 
he  had  not  seen  since  Grandma  Buntain's  time. 

"Be  seated,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I  did  not  know  I 
274 


BUD 

had  the  honor  of  a  visitor,"  and  he  gave  a  second, 
keener  glance  that  swept  the  baffling  figure  from  the 
flounced  green  poplin  to  the  snow-white  lappet  of  her 
bonnet.  A  lady  certainly  —  that  was  in  the  atmos- 
phere, however  odd  might  be  her  dress.  "Where  in 
the  world  has  this  one  dropped  from?"  he  asked  him- 
self, and  waited  an  explanation. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dyce!"  said  the  lady,  in  a  high,  shrill  voice 
that  plainly  told  she  never  came  from  south  of  the 
border,  and  with  a  certain  trepidation  in  her  manner, 
"I'm  feared  I  come  at  an  inconvenient  time  to  ye, 
and  I  maybe  should  hae  bided  at  your  office;  but  they 
tell't  me  ye  were  out  at  what  they  ca'd  a  Pleading 
Diet.  I've  come  about  my  mairrage." 

"Your  marriage!"  said  the  lawyer,  scarcely  hiding 
his  surprise. 

"Yes,  my  mairrage!"  she  repeated,  sharply,  drawing 
the  silken  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  bridling.  There's 
naething  droll,  I  hope  and  trust,  in  a  maiden  lady 
ca'in'  on  a  writer  for  his  help  about  her  settlements!" 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all,  ma'am,"  said  Daniel  Dyce. 
"I'm  honored  in  your  confidence."  And  he  pushed 
his  spectacles  up  on  his  brow  that  he  might  see  her 
less  distinctly  and  have  the  less  inclination  to  laugh 
at  such  an  eccentric  figure. 

She  broke  into  a  torrent  of  explanation.  "Ye  must 
excuse  me,  Mr.  Dyce,  if  I'm  put  about  and  gey  con- 
fused, for  it's  little  I'm  acquent  wi'  lawyers.  A'  my 
days  I've -heard  o'  naething  but  their  quirks,  for  they 
maistly  rookit  my  grandfaither.  And  I  cam'  wi'  the 
coach  frae  Maryfield,  and  my  heart's  in  a  palpitation 
wi'  sic  brienging  and  bangin'  ower  heughs  and  hills — " 
She  placed  a  mittened  hand  on  a  much-laced  stomach- 
er and  sighed  profoundly. 

275 


BUD 

"Perhaps — perhaps  a  glass  of  wine — "  began  the 
lawyer,  with  his  eye  on  the  bell-pull  and  a  notion  in 
his  head  that  wine  and  a  little  seed-cake  someway 
went  with  crinolines  and  the  age  of  the  Paisley  shawl. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  extravagantly.  "I  never  lip 
it;  I'm — I'm  in  the  Band  o'  Hope." 

The  lawyer  started,  and  scanned  her  again  through 
his  glasses  with  a  genial,  chuckling  crow.  "So's  most 
maiden  ladies,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I'm  glad  to  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  hopes  being  realized." 

"It  remains  to  be  seen,"  said  the  visitor.  "Gude 
kens  what  may  be  the  upshot.  The  maist  deleeberate 
mairrage  maun  be  aye  a  lottery,  as  my  auntie  Grizel 
o'  the  Whinhill  used  to  say;  and  I  canna  plead  that 
mine's  deleeberate,  for  the  man  just  tgok  a  violent 
fancy  the  very  first  nicht  he  set  his  een  on  me,  fell 
whummlin'  at  my  feet,  and  wasna  to  be  put  aff  wi' 
'No'  or  'Maybe.'  We're  a  puir,  weak  sex,  Mr.  Dyce, 
and  men's  sae  domineerin'!" 

She  ogled  him  through  her  clouded  glasses;  her  arch 
smile  showed  a  blemish  of  two  front  teeth  a-missing. 
He  gave  a  nod  of  sympathy,  and  she  was  off  again. 
"And  to  let  ye  ken  the  outs  and  ins  o't,  Mr.  Dyce, 
there's  a  bit  o'  land  near  Perth  that's  a'  that's  left  o' 
a  braw  estate  my  forebears  squandered  in  the  Darien. 
What  I  want  to  ken  is,  if  I  winna  could  hinder  him 
that's  my  fiance  frae  dicin'  or  drinkin'  't  awa'  ance 
he  got  me  maimed  to  him?  I  wad  be  sair  vexed  at 
ony  such  calamity,  for  my  family  hae  aye  been  barons." 

"Ance  a  baron  aye  a  baron,"  said  the  lawyer,  drop- 
ping into  her  own  broad  Scots. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Dyce,  that's  a'  very  fine;  but  baron  or 
baroness,  if  there's  sic  a  thing,  's  no  great  figure  want- 
in'  a  bit  o'  grun  to  gang  wi'  the  title;  and  John  Cleg- 

276 


BUD 

horn — that's  my  intended's  name — has  been  a  gey 
throughither  chiel  in  his  time  by  a'  reports,  and  I 
doubt  wi'  men  it's  the  aulder  the  waur." 

"I  hope  in  this  case  it  '11  be  the  aulder  the  wiser, 
Miss — "  said  the  lawyer,  and  hung  unheeded  on  the 
note  of  interrogation. 

"I'll  run  nae  risks  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  the  lady, 
emphatically;  "and  I'll  no'  put  my  trust  in  the  Edin- 
burgh lawyers,  either;  they're  a'  tarred  wi'  the  a'e  stick, 
or  I  sair  misjudge  them.  But  I'm  veesitin'  a  cousin 
owerby  at  Maryfield,  and  I'm  tell't  there's  no'  a  man 
that's  mair  dependable  in  a'  the  shire  than  yoursel', 
so  I  just  cam'  ower  ains  errand  for  a  consultation. 
Oh,  that  unco'  coach!  the  warld's  gane  wud,  Mr.  Dyce, 
wi'  hurry  and  stramash,  and  Scotland's  never  been 
the  same  since —  But  there!  I'm  awa'  frae  my 
story;  if  it's  the  Lord's  will  that  I'm  to  marry  Johnny 
Cleghorn,  what  comes  o'  Kaims?  Will  he  be  owner 
o't?" 

"Certainly  not,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  with  a 
gravity  well  preserved  considering  his  inward  feelings. 
"Even  before  the  Married  Women's  Property  Act, 
his  jus  mariti,  as  we  ca'  it,  gave  him  only  his  wife's 
personal  and  movable  estate.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  communio  bonorum — as  communion  of  goods — be- 
tween husband  and  wife  in  Scotland." 

"And  he  canna  sell  Kaims  on  me?" 

"No;  it's  yours  and  your  assigns  ad  perpetuam  re- 
manentiam,  being  feudal  right." 

"I  wish  ye  wad  speak  in  honest  English,  like  my- 
sel',  Mr.  Dyce,"  said  the  lady,  sharply.  "I've  for- 
gotten a'  my  Laiten,  and  the  very  sound  o't  gars  my 
heid  bizz.  I  doubt  it's  the  lawyer's  way  o'  gettin'  round 
puir,  helpless  bodies." 

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BUD 

"It's  scarcely  that,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  laughing.  "It's 
the  only  chance  we  get  to  air  auld  Mr.  Trayner,  and 
it's  thought  to  be  imposin'.  Ad  perpetuam  remanen- 
tiam  just  means  to  remain  forever." 

"I  thocht  that  maybe  John  might  hae  the  poo'er 
to  treat  Kaims  as  my  tocher." 

"Even  if  he  had,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  "a  dot,  or  dos,  or 
tocher,  in  the  honest  law  of  Scotland,  was  never  the 
price  o'  the  husband's  hand;  he  could  only  use  the 
fruits  o't.  He  is  not  entitled  to  dispose  of  it,  and 
must  restore  it  intact  if  unhappily  the  marriage  should 
at  any  time  be  dissolved." 

"Dissolved!"  cried  the  lady.  "Pegs!  ye're  in  an 
awfu'  hurry,  and  the  ring  no'  bought  yet.  Supposin' 
I  was  deein'  first?" 

"In  that  case  I  presume  that  you  would  have  the 
succession  settled  on  your  husband." 

"On  Johnny  Cleghorn!  Catch  me!  There's  sic  a 
thing  as — as — as  bairns,  Mr.  Dyce,"  and  the  lady  sim- 
pered coyly,  while  the  lawyer  rose  hurriedly  to  fumble 
with  some  books  and  hide  his  confusion  at  such  a  wild 
conjecture.  He  was  relieved  by  the  entrance  of  Bell 
and  Ailie,  who  stood  amazed  at  the  sight  of  the  odd 
and  unexpected  visitor. 

"My  sisters,"  said  the  lawyer,  hastily.  "Miss — 
Miss —  I  did  not  catch  the  name." 

"Miss  Macintosh,"  said  the  stranger,  nervously, 
and  Bell  cried  out,  immediately,  "I  was  perfectly  as- 
sured of  it!  Lennox  has  often  spoken  of  you,  and 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  did  not  know  you  were  in 
the  neighborhood." 

Ailie  was  delighted  with  so  picturesque  a  figure. 
She  could  scarcely  keep  her  eyes  off  the  many-flounced, 
expansive  gown  of  poplin,  the  stomacher,  the  ponder- 

278 


BUD 

ous  ear-rings,  the  great  cameo  brooch,  the  long  lace 
mittens,  the  Paisley  shawl,  the  neat  poke  bonnet,  and 
the  fresh  old  face  marred  only  by  the  spectacles  and 
the  gap  where  the  teeth  were  missing." 

"I  have  just  been  consultin'  Mr.  Dyce  on  my  comin' 
mairrage,"  said  The  Macintosh;  and  at  this  intelligence 
from  a  piece  of  such  antiquity  Miss  Bell's  face  betrayed 
so  much  astonishment  that  Dan  and  Ailie  almost  for- 
got their  good  manners. 

"Oh,  if  it's  business — "  said  Bell,  and  rose  to  go;  but 
The  Macintosh  put  a  hand  on  her  sleeve  and  stayed  her. 

"Ye  needna  fash  to  leave,  Miss  Dyce,"  said  she. 
"A'  thing's  settled.  It  seems  that  Johnny  Cleghorn 
canna  ca'  a  rig  o'  Kaims  his  ain  when  he  mairries  me, 
and  that  was  a'  I  cam'  to  see  about.  Oh,  it's  a  mis- 
chancy  thing  a  mairrage,  Miss  Dyce;  maist  folk  gang 
intill't  heels-ower-hurdies,  but  I'm  in  an  awfu'  swither, 
and  havena  a  mither  to  guide  me." 

"Keep  mei"  said  Miss  Bell,  out  of  all  patience  at 
such  maidenly  apprehensions ; ' '  ye 're  surely  auld  enough 
to  ken  your  ain  mind.  I  hope  the  guidman's  worthy." 

"He's  no'  that  ill  —  as  men -folk  gang,"  said  The 
Macintosh,  resignedly.  "He's  as  fat's  creish,  and  has 
a  craighlin'  cough,  the  body,  and  he's  faur  frae  bonny, 
and  he  hasna  a  bawbee  o'  his  ain,  and,  sirs!  what  a  repu- 
tation! But  a  man's  a  man,  Miss  Dyce,  and  time's 
aye  fleein'." 

At  such  a  list  of  disabilities  in  a  husband,  the  Dyces 
lost  all  sense  of  the  proprieties  and  broke  into  laughter, 
in  which  the  lady  joined  them,  shaking  in  her  arm- 
chair. Bell  was  the  first  to  recover  with  a  guilty 
sense  that  this  was  very  bad  for  Daniel's  business. 
She  straightened  her  face,  and  was  about  to  make 
apologies,  when  Footles  bounded  in  at  the  open  door, 

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BUD 

to  throw  himself  at  the  feet  of  The  Macintosh  and  wave 
a  joyous  tail.  But  he  was  not  content  there.  In 
spite  of  her  resistance  he  rriust  be  in  her  lap,  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  Bell  and  Ailie  noticed  a  familiar 
cadence  in  the  stranger's  laugh. 

Dan  rose  and  clapped  her  on  the  back.  "Well 
done,  Bud!"  said  he.  "Ye  had  us  a';  but  Footles 
wasna  to  be  swindled  wi'  an  auld  wife's  goon,"  and  he 
gently  drew  the  spectacles  from  the  laughing  eyes  of 
his  naughty  niece. 

"Oh,  you  rogue!"  cried  Auntie  Ailie. 

"You  wretch!"  cried  Auntie  Bell.  "I  might  have 
known  your  cantrips.  Where  in  the  world  did  you 
get  these  clothes?" 

Bud  sailed  across  the  room  like  a  cutter  yacht  and 
put  her  arms  about  her  aunt's  neck.  "Didn't  you 
know  me?"  she  asked. 

"How  could  I  know  you,  dressed  up  like  that? 
And  your  teeth — you  imp!  they're  blackened;  and 
your  neck — you  jad!  it's  painted;  and  —  oh,  lassie, 
lassie!  Awa',  awa'!  the  deil's  ower  grit  wi'  ye!" 

"Didn't  you  know  me,  Aunt  Ailie?"  asked  Bud. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Ailie,  taking  the  droll  old 
figure  in  her  arms.  "Perhaps  I  might  have  known 
you  if  I  didn't  think  it  was  to-morrow  you  were  com- 
ing." 

"It  was  to  have  been  to-morrow;  but  the  measles 
have  broken  out  in  school,  and  I  came  a  day  earlier, 
and  calculated  I'd  just  hop  in  and  surprise  you  all. 
Didn't  you  guess,  Uncle  Dan?" 

"Not  at  first,"  said  he.  "I'll  admit  I  was  fairly 
deceived,  but  when  you  talked  about  being  in  the 
Band  of  Hope  I  saw  at  a  shot  through  The  Macintosh. 
I  hope  you  liked  my  Latin,  Bud." 

280 


CHAPTER   XXX 

""V/OU  surely  did  not   come  in  these  daftlike  gar- 
\   ments  all  the  way  from  Edinburgh?"  asked  her 
auntie  Bell,  when  the  wig  had  been  removed  and  Bud's 
youth  was  otherwise  resumed. 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Bud,  sparkling  with  the  success 
of  her  deception.  "I  came  almost  enough  of  a  finished 
young  lady  to  do  you  credit,  but  when  I  found  there 
was  nobody  in  the  house  except  Kate,  I  felt  I  couldn't 
get  a  better  chance  to  introduce  you  to  The  Macintosh 
if  I  waited  for  a  year.  I  told  you  we'd  been  playing 
charades  last  winter  at  the  school,  and  I  got  Jim  to 
send  me  some  make-up,  the  wig,  and  this  real  cute  old 
lady's  dress.  They  were  all  in  my  box  to  give  you 
some  fun  sometime,  and  Kate  helped  me  hook  things, 
though  she  was  mighty  scared  to  think  how  angry  you 
might  be,  Aunt  Bell;  and  when  I  was  ready  for  you 
she  said  she'd  be  sure  to  laugh  fit  to  burst,  and  then 
you'd  see  it  was  only  me  dressed  up;  and  Footles  he 
barked,  so  he  looked  like  giving  the  show  away,  so 
I  sent  them  both  out  in  the  garden  and  sat  in  a  stage 
fright  that  almost  shook  my  ear-rings  off.  I  tell  you 
I  felt  mighty  poorly  sitting  there  wondering  what  on 
earth  I  was  to  say ;  but  by-and-by  I  got  to  be  so  much 
The  Macintosh  I  felt  almost  sure  enough  her  to  have 
the  rheumatism,  and  knew  I  could  fix  up  gags  to  keep 
the  part  going.  I  didn't  expect  Uncle  Dan  would  be 

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the  first  to  come  in,  or  I  wouldn't  have  felt  so  brave 
about  it,  he's  so  sharp  and  suspicious — that's  with 
being  a  lawyer,  I  s'pose,  they're  a'  tarred  wi'  the  a'e 
stick  Miss  Macintosh  says ;  and  when  he  talked  all  that 
solemn  Latin  stuff  and  looked  like  running  up  a  bill  for 
law  advice  that  would  ruin  me,  I  laughed  inside  enough 
to  ache.  Now  amn't  I  just  the  very  wickedest  girl, 
Uncle  Dan?" 

"A  little  less  Scotch  and  a  more  plausible  story 
would  have  made  the  character  perfect,"  said  her  uncle. 
"Where  did  you  get  them  both?  Miss  Macintosh  was 
surely  not  the  only  model?" 

"Well,  she's  not  so  Scotch  as  I  made  out,  except 
when  she's  very  sentimental,  but  I  felt  she'd  have  to 
be  as  Scotch  as  the  mountain  and  the  flood  to  fit  these 
clothes;  and  she's  never  talked  about  marrying  any- 
body herself,  but  she's  making  a  match  just  now  for 
a  cousin  of  hers,  and  tells  us  all  about  it.  I  was  partly 
her,  but  not  enough  to  be  unkind  or  mean,  and  partly 
her  cousin,  and  a  little  bit  of  the  Waverley  Novels — 
in  fact,  I  was  pure  mosaic,  like  our  dog.  There  wasn't 
enough  real  quaint  about  Miss  Macintosh  for  ordinary 
to  make  a  front  scene  monologue  go,  but  she's  fuller  of 
hints  than — than  a  dictionary,  and  once  I  started  I 
felt  I  could  play  half  a  dozen  Macintoshes  all  dif- 
ferent, so's  you'd  actually  think  she  was  a  surging 
crowd.  You  see,  there's  the  Jacobite  Macintosh,  and 
the  '  aboaminable  English '  Macintosh,  and  the  flirting 
Macintosh  who  raps  Herr  Laurent  with  her  fan,  and 
the  fortune-telling  Macintosh  who  reads  palms  and  tea- 
cup leaves,  and  the  dancing  and  deportment  Mac- 
intosh who  knows  all  the  first  families  in  Scotland." 

Bud  solemnly  counted  off  the  various  Macintoshes 
on  her  finger-tips. 

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"We'll  have  every  one  of  them  when  you  come  home 
next  winter,"  said  Miss  Ailie.  "I'd  prefer  it  to  the 
opera." 

"I  can't  deny  but  it's  diverting,"  said  Mfss  Bell; 
"still  it's  dreadfully  like  play-acting,  and  hardly  the 
thing  for  a  sober  dwelling.  Lassie,  lassie,  away  this 
instant  and  change  yourself!" 

If  prizes  and  Italian  songs  had  really  been  the  proof 
that  Bud  had  taken  on  the  polish,  she  would  have  dis- 
appointed Uncle  Dan,  but  this  art  of  hers  was  enough 
to  make  full  amends,  it  gave  .so  much  diversion. 
Character  roused  and  held  her  interest;  she  had  a 
lightning  eye  for  oddities  of  speech  and  gesture.  Most 
of  a  man's  philosophy  is  in  a  favorite  phrase,  his  in- 
dividuality is  betrayed  in  the  way  he  carries  his  hat 
along  the  aisle  on  Sunday.  Bud,  each  time  that  she 
came  home  from  Edinburgh,  collected  phrases  as 
others  do  postage-stamps,  and  knew  how  every  hat  in 
town  was  carried.  Folk  void  of  idiosyncrasy,  having 
the  natural  self  restrained  by  watchfulness  and  fear, 
were  the  only  ones  whose  company  she  wearied  of; 
all  others  she  studied  with  delight,  storing  of  each  some 
simulacrum  in  her  memory.  Had  she  reproduced 
them  in  a  way  to  make  them  look  ridiculous  she  would 
have  roused  the  Dyces'  disapproval,  but  lacking  any 
sense  of  superiority  she  made  no  impersonation  look 
ignoble — the  portraits  in  her  gallery,  like  Raeburn's, 
borrowed  a  becoming  curl  or  two  and  toned  down 
crimson  noses. 

But  her  favorite  character  was  The  Macintosh  in 
one  of  tie  countless  phases  that  at  last  were  all  her 
own  invention,  and  far  removed  from  the  original. 
Each  time  she  came  home,  the  dancing-mistress  they 
had  never  really  seen  became  a  more  familiar  personage 

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to  the  Dyces.  "I  declare,"  cried  Bell,  "I'm  beginning 
to  think  of  you  always  as  a  droll  old  body."  "And 
how's  the  rheumatism?"  Dan  would  ask;  it  was  "The 
Macintosh  said  this"  or  "The  Macintosh  said  that" 
with  Ailie,  and  even  Kate  would  quote  the  dancing- 
mistress  with  such  earnestness  that  the  town  became 
familiar  with  the  name  and  character  without  suspect- 
ing they  were  often  merely  parts  assumed  by  young 
Miss  Lennox. 

Bud  carried  the  joke  one  night  to  daring  lengths  by 
going  as  Miss  Macintosh  with  Ailie  to  a  dance,  in  a 
gown  and  pelerine  of  Grandma  Buntain's  that  had  made 
tremendous  conquests  eighty  years  before. 

Our  dances  at  the  inn  are  not  like  city  routs :  Petro- 
nella,  La  Tempete,  and  the  reel  have  still  an  honored 
place  in  them;  we  think  the  joy  of  life  is  not  meant 
wholly  for  the  young  and  silly,  and  so  the  elderly 
attend  them.  We  sip  claret-cup  and  tea  in  the  alcove 
or  "adjacent,"  and  gossip  together  if  our  dancing  days 
are  done,  or  sit  below  the  flags  and  heather,  humming 
"Merrily  danced  the  quaker's  wife,"  with  an  approv- 
ing eye  on  our  bonny  daughters.  Custom  gives  the 
Provost  and  his  lady  a  place  of  honor  in  ttye  alcove 
behind  the  music;  here  is  a  petty  court  where  the  civic 
spirit  pays  its  devoirs,  where  the  lockets  are  large  and 
strong,  and  hair-chains  much  abound,  and  mouths 
before  the  mellowing  midnight  hour  are  apt  to  be  a 
little  mim. 

Towards  the  alcove  Ailie  —  Dan  discreetly  moving 
elsewhere — boldly  led  The  Macintosh,  whose  ballooning 
silk  brocade  put  even  the  haughtiest  of  the  otHer  dames 
in  shadow.  She  swam  across  the  floor  as  if  her  hoops 
and  not  her  buckled  shoon  sustained  her,  as  if  she 
moved  on  air. 

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"Dod!  here's  a  character!"  said  Dr.  Brash,  pulling 
down  his  waistcoat.  "Where  have  the  Dyces  gotten 
her?" 

"The  Ark  is  landed,"  said  the  Provost's  lady.  ''What 
a  peculiar  creature!" 

Ailie  gravely  gave  the  necessary  introductions,  and 
soon  the  notable  Miss  Macintosh  of  Kaims  was  the 
lion  of  the  assembly.  She  flirted  most  outrageously 
with  the  older  beaux,  sharing  roguish  smiles  and  taps 
of  the  fan  between  them,  and,  compelling  unaccus- 
tomed gallantries,  set  their  wives  all  laughing.  They 
drank  wine  with  her  in  the  old  style;  she  met  them 
glass  for  glass  in  water. 

"And  I'll  gie  ye  a  toast  now,"  she  said,  when  her 
turn  came — "Scotland's  Rights,"  raising  her  glass  of 
water  with  a  dramatic  gesture. 

"Dod!  the  auld  body's  got  an  arm  on  her,"  whis- 
pered Dr.  Brash  to  Colin  Cleland,  seeing  revealed  the 
pink,  plump  flesh  between  the  short  sleeves  and  the 
top  of  the  mittens. 

They  drank  the  sentiment — the  excuse  for  the  glass 
was  good  enough,  though  in  these  prosaic  days  a  bit 
mysterious. 

"What  are  they?"  asked  the  Provost. 

"What  are  what?"  said  The  Macintosh. 

"Scotland's  Rights." 

"I'll  leave  it  to  my  frien'  Mr.  Dyce  to  tell  ye,"  she 
said,  quickly,  for  the  lawyer  had  now  joined  the  group. 
"It  '11  aiblens  cost  ye  6s.  Sd.,  but  for  that  I  dare  say  he 
can  gie  ye  them  in  the  Laiten.  But — but  I  hope  we're 
a'  frien's  here  ?"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  hurried  glance 
round  her  company.  "I  hope  we  have  nane  o'  thae 
aboaminable  English  amang  us.  I  canna  thole  them! 
It  has  been  a  sair  doon-come  for  Scotland  since  ever 
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she  drew  in  wi'  them."  For  a  space  she  dwelt  on 
themes  of  rather  antique  patriotism  that  made  her 
audience  smile,  for  in  truth  in  this  burgh  town  we  see 
no  difference  between  Scotch  and  English ;  in  our  cal- 
culations there  are  only  the  lucky  folk,  born,  bred,  and 
dwelling  within  the  sound  of  Will  Oliver's  bell,  and  the 
poor  souls  who  have  to  live  elsewhere,  all  equally  un- 
fortunate, whether  they  be  English,  Irish,  or  Scots. 

"But  here  I'm  keepin'  you  gentlemen  frae  your 
dancin',"  she  said,  interrupting  herself,  and  consterna- 
tion fell  on  her  company,  for  sets  were  being  formed 
for  a  quadrille,  and  her  innuendo  was  unmistakable. 
She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  as  if  enjoy- 
ing their  discomfiture. 

"I  —  I  —  I  haven't  danced  myself  for  years,"  said 
the  Provost,  which  was  true.  And  Colin  Cleland,  sigh- 
ing deeply  in  his  prominent  profile  and  hiding  his  feet, 
protested  quadrilles  were  beyond  him.  The  younger 
men  quickly  remembered  other  engagements  and  dis- 
appeared. "Will  you  do  me  the  honor?"  said  Dr. 
Brash.  Good  man!  a  gentle  hero's  heart  was  under  that 
wrinkled  waistcoat. 

"Oh!"  said  The  Macintosh,  rising  to  his  arm,  "you'll 
be  sure  and  no'  to  swing  me  aff  my  feet,  for  I'm  but  a 
frail  and  giddy  creature." 

"It  would  be  but  paying  you  back,"  said  the  doctor, 
bowing.  "Miss  Macintosh  has  been  swingin'  us  a'  aff 
our  feet  since  she  entered  the  room." 

She  laughed  behind  her  clouded  glasses,  tapped  him 
lightly  with  her  fan,  and  swam  into  the  opening  move- 
ment of  the  figure.  The  word's  abused,  yet  I  can  but 
say  she  danced  divinely,  with  such  grace,  lightness  of 
foot,  and  rhythm  of  the  body  that  folk  stared  at  her 
in  admiration  and  incredulity;  her  carriage,  seen  from 

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behind,  came  perilously  near  betraying  her,  and  possi- 
bly her  partner  might  have  soon  discovered  who  he  had, 
even  if  she  had  not  made  him  a  confession. 

"Upon  my  word!"  said  he,  in  a  pause  between  the 
figures  —  "upon  my  word!  you  dance  magnificently, 
Miss  Macintosh.  I  must  apologize  for  such  a  stiff  old 
partner  as  you've  gotten." 

"I  micht  weel  dance,"  said  she.  "You  ken  I'm  a 
dancin' -mistress?"  Then  she  whispered  hurriedly  in 
her  natural  voice  to  him.  "I  feel  real  bold,  Dr.  Brash, 
to  be  dancing  with  you  here  when  I  haven't  come  out 
yet,  and  I  feel  real  mean  to  be  deceiving  you,  who 
would  dance  with  an  old  frump  just  because  you're 
sorry  for  her,  and  I  can't  do  it  one  minute  longer. 
Don't  you  know  me,  really?" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  he,  in  an  undertone,  aghast. 
"Miss  Lennox!" 

"Only  for  you,"  she  whispered.  "Please  don't  tell 
anybody  else." 

"You  beat  all,"  he  told  her.  "I  suppose  I'm  mak- 
ing myself  ridiculous  dancing  away  here  with — h'm! — 
auld  lang  syne,  but  faith  I  have  the  advantage  now  of 
the  others,  and  you  mustn't  let  on  when  the  thing 
comes  out  that  I  did  not  know  you  from  the  out- 
set. I  have  a  crow  to  pick  with  Miss  Ailie  about  this 
— the  rogue!  But,  young  woman,  it's  an  actress  you 
are!" 

"Not  yet,  but  it's  an  actress  I  mean  to  be,"  she  said, 
poussetting  with  him. 

"H'm!"  said  he,  "there  seems  the  natural  gift  for  it; 
but  once  on  a  time  I  made  up  my  mind  it  was  to  be 
poetry." 

"I've  got  over  poetry,"  she  said.  "I  found  I  was 
only  one  of  that  kind  of  poets  who  always  cut  it  up  in 

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fourteen-line  lengths  and  begin  with  'As  when.'  No, 
it's  to  be  the  stage,  Dr.  Brash;  I  guess  God's  fixed  it." 

"Whiles  He  is — h'm — injudicious,"  said  the  doctor. 
"But  what  about  Aunt  Bell?" 

"There's  no  buts  about  it,  though  I  admit  I'm  wor- 
ried to  think  of  Auntie  Bell.  She  considers  acting  is 
almost  as  bad  as  lying,  and  talks  about  the  theatre  as 
Satan's  abode.  If  it  wasn't  that  she  was  from  home 
to-night,  I  daren't  have  been  here.  I  wish — I  wish  I 
didn't  love  her  so — almost — for  I  feel  I've  got  to  vex 
her  pretty  bad." 

"Indeed  you  have,"  said  Dr.  Brash.  "And  you've 
spoiled  my  dancing,  for  I've  a  great  respect  for  that 
devoted  little  woman." 

Back  in  the  alcove  The  Macintosh  found  more  to 
surround  her  than  ever,  though  it  was  the  penalty  of 
her  apparent  age  that  they  were  readier  to  joke  than 
dance  with  her.  Captain  Consequence,  wanting  a  wife 
with  money,  if  and  when  his  mother  should  be  taken 
from  him,  never  lost  a  chance  to  see  how  a  pompous 
manner  and  his  medals  would  affect  strange  ladies;  he 
was  so  marked  in  his  attention  and  created  such  amuse- 
ment to  the  company  that,  pitying  him,  and  fearful  of 
her  own  deception,  she  proposed  to  tell  fortunes.  The 
ladies  brought  her  their  emptied  teacups;  the  men 
solemnly  laid  their  palms  before  her;  she  divined  for 
all  their  past  and  future  in  a  practised  way  that  as- 
tonished her  uncle  and  aunt,  who,  afraid  of  some 
awkward  sally,  had  kept  aloof  at  first  from  her  levee, 
but  now  were  the  most  interested  of  her  audience. 

Over  the  leaves  in  Miss  Minto's  cup  she  frowned 
through  her  clouded  glasses.  "There's  lots  o'  money," 
said  she,  "and  a  braw  house,  and  a  muckle  garden  wi' 
bees  and  trees  in't,  and  a  wheen  boy's  speilin'  the  wa's 

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— you  may  be  aye  assured  o'  bien  circumstances,  Miss 
Minto." 

Miss  Minto,  warmly  conscious  of  the  lawyer  at  her 
back,  could  have  wished  for  a  fortune  less  prosaic. 

"Look  again;  is  there  no'  a  man  to  keep  the  laddies 
awa'?"  suggested  the  Provost,  pawky  body! 

"I  declare  there  is!"  cried  The  Macintosh,  taking  the 
hint.  "See;  there!  he's  under  this  tree,  a'  huddled  up 
in  an  awfu'  passion." 

"I  can't  make  out  his  head,"  said  the  Provost's  lady. 

"Some  men  hae  nane,"  retorted  the  spae-wife;  "but 
what's  to  hinder  ye  imaginin'  't,  like  me?" 

"Oh!  if  it's  imagination,"  said  the  Provost's  lady, 
"I  can  hear  him  swearin'.  And  now,  what's  my  cup ?" 

"I  see  here,"  said  The  Macintosh,  "a  kind  o'  island 
far  at  sea,  and  a  ship  sailin'  frae't  this  way,  wi'  flags 
to  the  mast-heid  and  a  man  on  board." 

"I  hope  he's  well,  then,"  said  the  Provost's  lady, 
"for  that's  our  James,  and  he's  coming  from  Barbadoes ; 
we  had  a  letter  just  last  week.  Indeed,  you're  a  perfect 
wizard!"  She  had  forgotten  that  her  darling  James's 
coming  was  the  talk  of  the  town  for  ten  days  back. 

Colin  Cleland,  rubicund,  good-natured,  with  his  shy- 
ness gone,  next  proffered  his  palm  to  read.  His  hand 
lay  like  a  plaice,  inelegant  and  large,  in  hers,  whose 
fresh  young  beauty  might  have  roused  suspicion  in 
observers  less  carried  away  in  the  general  illusion. 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh,  "ye  hae  had  your 
trials!" 

" Mony  a  ane,  ma'am,"  said  the  jovial  Colin.  "I  was 
ance  a  lawyer,  for  my  sins." 

"That's  no'  the  kind  o'  trial  I  mean,"  said  The  Mac- 
intosh. "Here's  a  wheen  o'  auld  tribulations." 

"Perhaps  you're  richt,  ma'am,"  he  admitted.    "I  hae 


BUD 

a  sorry  lot  o'  them  marked  doon  in  auld  diaries,  but, 
Gude  be  thanked,  I  canna  mind  them  unless  I  look  them 
up.  They  werena  near  sae  mony  as  the  rattlin'  ploys 
I've  had." 

"Is  there  no'  a  wife  for  Mr.  Cleland?"  said  the  Prov- 
ost— pawky,  pawky  man! 

"There  was  ance,  I  see,  a  girl,  and  she  was  the  richt 
girl,  too,"  said  The  Macintosh. 

"Yes,  but  I  was  the  wrang  man,"  said  Colin  Cleland, 
drawing  his  hand  away,  and  nobody  laughed,  for  all 
but  The  Macintosh  knew  that  story  and  made  it  some 
excuse  for  foolish  habits. 

"I'm  a  bit  of  a  warlock  myself,"  said  Dr.  Brash,  be- 
holding the  spae- wife's  vexation  at  a  faux-pas  she  only 
guessed  herself  guilty  of.  "I'll  read  your  loof,  Miss 
Macintosh,  if  ye  let  me." 

They  all  insisted  she  should  submit  herself  to  the 
doctor's  unusual  art,  and  taking  her  hand  in  his  he 
drew  the  mitten  off  and  pretended  to  scan  the  lines. 

"Travel — h'm — a  serious  illness — h'm — your  life, 
in  youth,  was  quite  adventurous,  Miss  Macintosh." 

"Oh,  I'm  no'  that  auld  yet,"  she  corrected  him. 
"There's  mony  a  chance  at  fifty.  Never  mind  my 
past,  Dr.  Brash,  what  about  my  future?" 

He  glanced  up  a  moment  and  saw  her  aunt  and  uncle 
listening  in  amusement,  unaware  as  yet  that  he  knew 
the  secret,  then  scanned  her  palm  again. 

"The  future — h'm!  let  me  see.  A  long  line  of  life; 
heart  line  healthy — h'm — the  best  of  your  life's  before 
you,  though  I  cannot  say  it  may  be  the  happiest  part 
of  it.  Perhaps  my — h'm — my  skill  a  little  fails  here. 
You  have  a  strong  will,  Miss — Miss  Macintosh,  and  I 
doubt  in  this  world  you'll  aye  have  your  own  way. 
And — h'm — an  odd  destiny  surely's  before  you — I  see 

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the  line  of  fame,  won — h'm — in  a  multitude  of  charac- 
ters; by  the  Lord  Hairry,  ma'am,  you're  to  be — you're 
to  be  an  actress!" 

The  company  laughed  at  such  a  prophecy  for  one  so 
antiquated,  and  the  doctor's  absurdity  put  an  end  to 
the  spacing  of  fortunes,  but  he  had  effected  his  purpose. 
He  had  found  the  words  that  expressed  the  hope,  half 
entertained  so  far,  of  Ailie  and  the  fear  of  her  brother 
Dan.  They  learned  before  they  left  that  he  had  not 
spoken  without  his  cue,  yet  it  was  a  little  saddened  they 
went  home  at  midnight  with  their  ward  in  masquerade. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FORTUNATELY  Kate's  marriage  came  to  distract 
them  for  a  while  from  the  thought  of  Bud's  future. 
The  essential  house  had  been  found  that  was  suitable 
for  a  captain,  yet  not  too  dearly  rented — a  piece  of 
luck  in  a  community  where  dwellings  are  rarely  va- 
cant, and  every  tenant  over  eighty  years  of  age  has 
the  uneasy  consciousness  that  half  a  dozen  pairs  be- 
trothed have  already  decided  upon  a  different  color 
of  paint  for  his  windows,  and  have  become  resigned, 
with  a  not  unpleasing  melancholy,  to  the  thought  that 
in  the  course  of  nature  his  time  cannot  be  long. 

The  Captain — that  once  roving  eagle-heart  subdued 
by  love  for  the  maid  of  Colonsay — so  persistently  dis- 
couraged any  yachting  trips  which  took  the  Wave  for 
more  than  a  night  or  two  from  her  moorings  that 
Lady  Anne  and  her  husband,  knowing  the  heart  them- 
selves, recommended  immediate  marriage;  and  Miss 
Bell,  in  consequence,  was  scouring  the  country-side  for 
Kate's  successor  in  the  kitchen,  but  hopeless  of  coming 
on  one  who  could  cook  good  kale,  have  a  cheery  face, 
and  be  a  strict  communicant.  "I  can  get  fine  cooks 
that  are  wanting  in  the  grace  of  God,  and  pious  girls 
who  couldn't  be  trusted  to  bake  a  Christian  scone," 
she  said;  "it's  a  choice  between  two  evils." 

"Of  two  evils  choose  the  third,  then,"  said  Dan  to 
his  sister,  flushed  and  exhilarated  by  a  search  that,  for 

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elderly  maiden  ladies,  makes  up  for  an  older  hunt. 
"The  sport's  agreeing  with  you." 

It  was  a  great  distress  to  Bud  that  the  wedding 
should  take  place  in  the  house  and  not  in  church,  as 
seemed  most  fitting.  She  felt  a  private  ceremony  de- 
prived her  of  a  spectacle,  with  Miss  Amelia  Duff  play- 
ing the  wedding  march  on  the  harmonium,  and  the 
audience  filing  up  the  aisle  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  the 
carriage  of  their  hats  revealing  character. 

"Why,  you're  simply  going  to  make  it  look  like  a 
plain  tea!"  she  protested.  "If  it  was  my  marriage, 
Kate,  I'd  have  it  as  solemn  and  grand  as  Harvest  Sun- 
day. A  body  doesn't  get  married  to  a  man  in  brass 
buttons  every  other  day,  and  it's  a  chance  for  style." 

"We  never  have  our  weddings  in  the  church,"  said 
Kate.  "Sometimes  the  gentry  do,  but  it's  not  con- 
sidered nice;  it's  kind  of  Roman  Catholic.  Forbye,  in 
a  church,  where  would  you  get  the  fun?" 

If  Bud  hadn't  realized  that  fun  was  the  main  thing  at 
Scottish  weddings,  she  got  hints  of  it  in  Kate's  prepa- 
ration. Croodles  and  hysterics  took  possession  of  the 
bride:  she  was  sure  she  would  never  get  through  the 
ceremony  with  her  life,  or  she  would  certainly  do  some- 
thing silly  that  would  make  the  whole  world  laugh  at 
her  and  dreadfully  vex  the  Captain.  Even  her  wed- 
ding-dress, whose  prospect  had  filled  her  dreams  with 
gladness,  but  deepened  her  depression  when  it  came 
from  the  manteau-maker's — she  wept  sad  stains  on  the 
front  width,  and  the  orange-blossom  they  rehearsed 
with  might  have  been  a  wreath  of  the  bitter  rue.  Bud 
wanted  her  to  try  the  dress  on,  but  the  bride  was 
aghast  at  such  an  unlucky  proposition;  so  she  tried  it 
on  herself,  with  sweet  results,  if  one  did  not  look  at 
the  gathers  in  the  back.  They  practised  the  ceremony 

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the  night  before,  Kate's  sister  from  Colonsay  (who  was 
to  be  her  bridesmaid)  playing  the  part  of  a  tall,  brass- 
buttoned  bridegroom. 

"Oh,  Kate!"  cried  Bud,  pitifully,  "you  stand  there 
like's  you  were  a  soda-water  bottle  and  the  cork  lost. 
My  goodness!  brisk  up  a  bit;  if  it's  hard  on  you,  just 
remember  it  isn't  much  of  a  joke  for  Charles.  Don't 
you  know  the  eyes  of  the  public  are  on  you  ?" 

"That's  just  it,"  said  poor  Kate.  "I  wouldn't  be 
frightened  a  bit  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  for  I'm  so  brave. 
What  do  you  do  with  your  hands?" 

"  You  just  keep  hold  of  them.  Mercy!  don't  let  them 
hang  like  that;  they're  yours;  up  till  now  he's  got  noth- 
ing to  do  with  them.  Now  for  the  tears — where 's  your 
handkerchief?  That  one's  yards  too  big,  and  there 
isn't  an  edge  of  lace  to  peek  through,  but  it  '11  do  this 
time.  It  '11  all  be  right  on  the  night.  Now  the  minis- 
ter's speaking,  and  you're  looking  down  at  the  carpet 
and  you're  timid  and  fluttered  and  nervous,  and  think- 
ing what  an  epoch  this  is  in  your  sinful  life,  and  how 
you  won't  be  Kate  MacNeill  any  more  but  Mrs.  Charles 
Maclean,  and  the  Lord  knows  if  you  will  be  happy 
with  him — " 

The  bride  blubbered  and  threw  her  apron  over  her 
head  as  usual.  Bud  was  in  despair. 

"Well,  you  are  a  silly!"  she  exclaimed.  "All  you 
want  is  a  gentle  tear  or  two  trickling  down  the  side  of 
your  nose,  enough  to  make  your  eyes  blink  but  not 
enough  to  soak  your  veil  or  leave  streaks.  And  there 
you  gush  like  a  water-spout,  and  damp  your  face  so 
much  the  bridegroom  '11  catch  his  death  of  cold  when  he 
kisses  you.  Stop  it,  Kate  MacNeill,  it  isn't  anybody's 
funeral.  Why,  weddings  aren't  so  very  fatal ;  lots  of  folk 
get  over  them — leastways  in  America." 

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"I  can't  help  it!"  protested  the  weeping  maid.  "I 
never  could  be  melancholy  in  moderation,  and  the  way 
you  speak  you  make  me  think  it's  running  a  dreadful 
risk  to  marry  anybody." 

"Well,"  said  Bud,  "you  needn't  think  of  things  so 
harrowing,  I  suppose.  Just  squeeze  your  eyes  to- 
gether and  bite  your  lip,  and  perhaps  it  '11  start  a  tear; 
if  it  don't,  it  '11  look  like  as  if  you  were  bravely  struggling 
with  emotion.  And  then  there's  the  proud,  glad  smile 
as  you  back  out  on  Charles's  arm — give  her  your  arm, 
Minnie — the  trial's  over,  you  know,  and  you've  got 
on  a  lovely  new  plain  ring,  and  all  the  other  girls  are 
envious,  and  Charles  Maclean  and  you  are  one  till  death 
do  you  part.  Oh,  Kate,  Kate!  don't  grin;  that's  not 
a  smile,  it's  a  —  it's  a  railroad  track.  Look!"  Bud 
assumed  a  smile  that  spoke  of  gladness  and  humility, 
confidence  and  a  maiden's  fears,  a  smile  that  appealed 
and  charmed. 

"I  couldn't  smile  like  that  to  save  my  life,"  said  Kate, 
in  a  despair.  "I  wish  you  had  learned  me  that  in- 
stead of  the  height  of  Popacatthekettle.  Do  you  think 
he'll  be  angry. if  I  don't  do  them  things  properly?" 

"Who?  Charles!  Why,  Charles  '11  be  so  mortally 
scared  himself  he  wouldn't  notice  if  you  made  faces  at 
him  or  were  a  different  girl  altogether.  He'll  have  a 
dull,  dead  booming  in  his  ears,  and  wonder  whether  it's 
wedding-day  or  apple-custard — all  of  them  I've  seen 
married  looked  like  that.  It's  not  for  Charles  you 
should  weep  and  smile;  it's  for  the  front  of  the  house, 
you  know,  it's  for  the  people  looking  on." 

' '  Toots ! "  said  Kate ,  relieved .  "  If  it 's  only  for  them , 
I  needn't  bother.  I  thought  that  maybe  it  was  some- 
thing truly  refined  that  he  would  be  expecting.  It's 
not — it's  not  the  front  of  a  house  I'm  marrying.  Tell 

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me  this  and  tell  me  no  more — is  there  anything  special 
I  should  do  to  please  my  Charles  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I'd  worry,"  said  Bud,  on  reflection. 
' '  I  dare  say  it's  better  not  to  think  of  anything  dramatic. 
If  I  were  you  I'd  just  keep  calm  as  grass,  and  pray  the 
Lord  to  give  me  a  good,  contented  mind  and  hurry  up 
the  clergyman." 

But  yet  was  the  maiden  full  of  a  consciousness  of 
imperfection,  since  she  had  seen  that  day  the  bride 's- 
cake  on  view  in  the  baker's  window — an  edifice  of  art 
so  splendid  that  she  felt  she  could  never  be  worthy  of 
it.  "How* do  you  think  I'll  look?"  she  asked.  And 
Bud  assured  her  she  would  look  magnificently  lovely. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  did,"  she  sighed.  "But  I'm  feared  I'll 
not  look  so  lovely  as  I  think  I  do." 

"No  girl  ever  did,"  said  Bud.  "That's  impossible. 
But  when  Charles  comes  to  and  sits  up  he'll  think  you're 
It;  he'll  think  you  perfect." 

"Indeed,  I'm  far  from  that,"  said  Kate.  "I  have  just 
my  health  and  napery  and  a  liking  for  the  chap,  and  I 
wish  I  wasn't  near  so  red." 

Bud  was  able  to  instruct  her  in  the  right  deportment 
for  a  bride,  but  had  no  experience  in  the  management 
of  husbands ;  for  that  Kate  had  to  take  some  hints  from 
her  mistress,  who  was  under  the  delusion  that  her 
brother  Dan  was  the  standard  of  his  sex. 

"They're  curious  creatures,"  Bell  confided.  "You 
must  have  patience,  ay,  'and  humor  them.  They'll 
trot  at  your  heels  like  pussy  for  a  cheese-pudding,  but 
they'll  not  be  driven.  If  I  had  a  man  I  would  never 
thwart  him.  If  he  was  out  of  temper  or  unreasonable 
I  would  tell  him  he  was  looking  ill,  and  that  would 
make  him  feared  and  humble.  When  a  man  thinks 
he's  ill,  his  trust  must  be  in  the  Lord  and  in  his  woman- 

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kind.  That's  where  we  have  the  upper  hand  of  them! 
First  and  last  the  thing's  to  be  agreeable.  You'll  find 
he'll  never  put  anything  in  its  proper  place,  and  that's 
a  heartbreak,  but  it's  not  so  bad  as  if  he  broke  the 
dishes  and  blackened  your  eyes,  the  way  they  do  in  the 
newspapers.  There's  one  thing  that's  the  secret  of  a 
happy  home — to  live  in  the  fear  of  God  and  within  your 
income;  faith!  you  can't  live  very  well  without  it." 

".Oh,  m'em!  it's  a  desperate  thing  a  wedding,"  said 
the  maid.  "I  never  in  all  my  life  had  so  much  to 
think  about  before." 

There  were  stricken  lads  in  these  days!  The  more 
imminent  became  her  utter  loss,  the  more  desirable  Kate 
became;  but  sentiment  in  country  towns  is  an  accom- 
modating thing,  and  all  the  old  suitors — the  whistlers 
in  the  close  and  purveyors  of  conversation  lozenges- — 
found  consolation  in  the  fun  at  the  wedding,  and  danced 
their  griefs  away  on  the  flags  of  the  Dyces'  kitchen. 

A  noble  wedding  i  All  the  cookery  skill  of  Kate  and 
her  mistress  was  expended  on  it,  and  discretion,  for  the 
sake  of  the  incredulous,  forbids  enumeration  of  the 
roasted  hens.  Chanticleers  in  the  town  crowed  roupily 
and  ruefully  for  months  thereafter.  The  bridegroom 
might  have  stepped  over  the  wall  to  the  wedding 
chamber  or  walked  to  it  in  a  hundred  paces  up  the  lane ; 
he  rode  instead  in  a  carriage  that  made  a  stately  and 
circuitous  approach  round  John  Turner's  corner,  and 
wished  the  distance  had  been  twenty  times  as  long. 
"It's  not  that  I'm  feared,"  said  he,  "or  that  I've  rued' 
the  gyurl,  but — but  it's  kind  of  sudden!" — a  curious 
estimate  of  a  courtship  that  had  started  in  the  burial- 
ground  of  Colonsay  so  many  years  before ! 

A  noble  wedding! — its  revelry  kept  the  town  awake 
till  morning ;  from  the  open  windows  the  night  was  filled 

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with  dancing  tunes  and  songs  and  laughter;  boys  cried 
"Fab,  fab!"  in  the  street,  and  a  fairy  lady — really 
a  lady  all  grown  up,  alas! — stood  at  a  window  and 
showered  pence  among  them. 

Long  before  the  wedding  party  ended,  Bud  went  up 
to  bed,  but  she  lay  for  hours  awake  in  the  camceil-room 
hearing  the  revelry  of  the  kitchen.  She  had  said  good- 
bye to  the  blissful  pair  whose  wedding  was  the  con- 
sequence of  her  own  daft  pranks  as  letter- writer;  she 
would  miss  the  maid  of  Colonsay.  The  knowledge  that 
'tis  an  unc^tain  world,  a  place  of  change  and  partings, 
comes  to  us  all  sooner  or  later  in  one  flash  of  appre- 
hension and  of  grief;  for  the  first  time  Bud  felt  the 
irrevocable  nature  of  the  past,  and  that  her  happy 
world  under  this  roof  was,  someway,  crumbling,  and 
the  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

A  hurried  footstep  sounded  on  the  stairs,  a  rap  came 
to  the  door,  and  the  bride  came  in,  unbid,  in  the  dark- 
ness, whispering  Lennox's  name. 

Her  only  answer  was  a  sob  from  the  girl  in  bed. 

"Miss  Lennox!"  said  the  bride,  distressed,  "what  ails 
you?  I've  come  up  to  say  good-bye;  it  wasn't  a  right 
good-bye  at  all  with  yon  folk  looking.  Oh,  Lennox, 
Lennox!  ghaol  mo  chridhe!  my  heart  is  sore  to  be  leaving 
you,  for  the  two  of  us  were^so  merry!  Now  I  have  a 
man,  and  a  good  man,  too ;  it  was  you  that  gave  me  him, 
but  I  have  lost  my  loving  friend."  She  threw  herself 
on  the  bed,  regardless  of  her  finery,  and  the  Celtic  fount 
of  her  swelled  over  in  sobs  and  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IT  took  two  maids  to  fill  Kate's  place  in  the  Dyces' 
household — one  for  the  plain  boiling  of  potatoes  and 
the  other  for  her  pious  atmosphere,  as  the  lawyer  argued, 
and  a  period  of  discomfort  attended  on  what  Bell 
called  their  breaking  in.  No  more  kitchen  nights  for 
Lennox,  now  that  she  was  a  finished  young  lady  and  her 
friend  was  gone;  she  must  sit  in  the  parlor  strumming 
canzonets  on  Grandma  Buntain's  Broad  wood,  taming 
her  heart  of  fire.  It  was  as  a  voice  from  Heaven's  lift 
there  came  one  day  a  letter  from  London  in  which 
Mrs.  Molyneux  invited  her  and  one  of  her  aunts  for  an 
Easter  holiday. 

"Indeed  and  I'll  be  glad  to  be  quit  for  a  week  or  two 
of  both  of  you,"  said  Bell  to  her  niece  and  Ailie. 
"Spring  cleaning,  with  a  couple  of  stupid  huzzies  in  the 
kitchen — not  but  what  they're  nice  and  willing  lassies — 
is  like  to  be  the  sooner  ended  if  we're  left  to  it  our- 
selves." 

A  radiant  visage  and  lips  in  firm  control  betrayed  how 
Lennox  felt.  She  had  never  been  in  London — its  cry 
went  pealing  through  her  heart.  Ailie  said  nothing, 
but  marvelled  how  blithely  and  blindly  her  sister  always 
set  foot  on  the  facile  descent  that  led  to  her  inevitable 
doom  of  deprivation  and  regret. 

"The  Grand  Tour!"  said  Uncle  Dan;  "it's  the  fitting 
termination  to  your  daft  days,  Lennox.  Up  by  at  the 

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castle  there's  a  chariot  with  imperials  that  conveyed 
the  Earl  on  his,  the  hammer-cloth  most  lamentably 
faded.  I  often  wonder  if  his  lordship  takes  a  sly  seat 
in  it  at  times  when  no  one's  looking,  and  climbs  the 
Alps  or  clatters  through  Italian  towns  again  when 
Jones  the  coachman  is  away  at  his  tea.  It's  a  thing  I 
might  do  myself  if  I  had  made  the  Tour  and  still  had 
the  shandrydan." 

"Won't  you  really  need  me?"  Aunt  Ailie  asked  her 
sister,  and  half  hoped,  half  feared  spring  cleaning 
should  postpone  the  holiday,  but  Bell  maintained  it 
should  be  now  or  never,  more  particularly  as  Lennox's 
dress  was  new. 

Oh,  London,  London!  siren  town!  how  it  bewitched 
the  girl!  Its  cab-horse  bells  were  fairy;  its  evening,  as 
they  entered,  hung  with  a  myriad  magic  moons  and 
stars.  The  far-stretching  streets  with  their  flaming 
jewel  windows,  the  temples  in  the  upper  dusk,  and  the 
solemn  squares  crowding  round  country  trees;  the 
throngs  of  people,  the  odors  of  fruit-shops,  the  passion 
of  flowers,  the  mornings  silvery  gray,  and  the  multi- 
tudinous monuments  rimed  by  years,  thunder  of  hoofs 
in  ways  without  end,  and  the  silence  of  mighty  parks — 
Bud  lay  awake  in  the  nights  to  think  of  them. 

Jim  Molyneux  had  the  siren  by  the  throat :  he  loved 
her  and  shook  a  living  out  of  her  hands.  At  first  she 
had  seemed  to  him  too  old,  too  calm,  too  slow  and 
stately  as  compared  with  his  own  Chicago,  nor  did  she 
seem  to  have  a  place  for  any  stranger;  now  he  had 
found  she  could  be  bullied,  that  a  loud  voice,  a  bold 
front,  and  the  aid  of  a  good  tailor  could  compel  her 
to  disgorge  respect  and  gold.  He  had  become  the 
manager  of  a  suburban  theatre,  where  oranges  were 

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eaten  in  the  stalls  and  the  play  was  as  often  as  not 
"The  Father's  Curse";  but  once  a  day  he  walked  past 
Thespian  temples  in  the  city,  and,  groaning  at  their  mis- 
management, planned  an  early  future  for  himself  with 
classic  fronts  of  marble  and  duchesses  advertising  him 
each  night  by  standing  in  rows  on  the  pavement  await- 
ing their  carriages.  Far  along  Grove  Lane,  where  he 
dwelt  in  a  pea-green  house  with  nine  French  bean  rows 
and  some  clumps  of  bulbs  behind,  one  could  distinguish 
his  coming  by  the  smartness  of  his  walk  and  the  gleam 
of  the  sunshine  on  his  hat.  He  had  one  more  secret  of 
success — teetotalism.  "Scotch  and  soda,"  he  would 
say,  "that's  what  ails  the  boys,  and  makes  'em  sleepier 
than  Hank  M'Cabe's  old  tomcat.  Good  boys,  dear 
boys,  they've  always  got  the  long-lost-brother  grip,  but 
they're  mighty  prone  to  dope  assuagements  for  the  all- 
gone  feeling  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  When  they've 
got  cobwebs  in  their  little  brilliantined  belfries,  I'm 
full  of  the  songs  of  spring  and  merry  old  England's  on 
the  lee.  See?  I  don't  even  need  to  grab;  all  I've  got 
to  do  is  to  look  deserving  and  the  stuff  comes  crowding 
in ;  it  always  does  to  a  man  who  looks  like  ready  money 
and  don't  lunch  on  cocktails  and  cloves." 

"Jim,  boyette,"  his  wife  would  say,  "I  guess  you'd 
better  put  ice  or  something  on  your  bump  of  self- 
esteem" — but  she  proudly  wore  the  jewels  that  were  the 
rewards  of  his  confidence  and  industry. 

Bud  and  Ailie,  when  they  thought  of  home  in  these 
days,  thought  of  it  as  a  picture  only,  or  as  a  chapter  in 
a  book  covered  in  mouldy  leather,  with  /'s  for  s's.  In 
their  prayers  alone  were  Dan  and  Bell  real  personages ; 
and  the  far-off  little  town  was  no  longer  a  woodcut,  but 
an  actual  place  blown  through  by  the  scented  airs  of 
forest  and  sea.  Bell  wrote  them  of  rains  and  hails  and 
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misty  weather;  Grove  Lane  gardens  breathed  of  daffo- 
dils, and  the  city  gleamed  under  a  constant  sun.  They 
came  back  to  the  pea-green  house  each  day  from  rare 
adventuring,  looking,  in  the  words  of  Molyneux,  as  if 
they  were  fresh  come  off  the  farm,  and  the  best  seats 
in  half  a  dozen  theatres  were  at  their  disposal.  "Too 
much  of  the  playhouse  altogether!"  Bell  wrote  once, 
remonstrating.  "Have  you  heard  that  man  in  the 
City  Temple  yet?" 

In  Molyneux's  own  theatre  there  was  a  break  in  the 
long  succession  of  melodrama  and  musical  comedy. 
He  privately  rejoiced  that,  for  two  ladies  of  such  taste 
as  Ailie  and  her  niece,  he  could  display  a  piece  of  the 
real  legitimate — "King  John"  —though  Camberwell 
was  not  very  likely  to  make  a  week  of  Shakespeare 
profitable  to  his  treasury.  Ailie  and  Bud  were  to  go 
on  Tuesday ;  and  Bud  sat  up  at  night  to  read  an  acting 
copy  of  ' '  King  John ' '  till  every  character  took  flesh  in 
her  imagination,  and  the  little  iron  balcony  behind  the 
pea-green  house  became  the  battlemented  walls  of 
Angiers,  to  whose  postern  came  trumpeters  of  France. 

They  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  astonished  at  her 
speeches — 

" '  You  men  of  Angiers,  open  wide  your  gates, 
And  let  young  Arthur,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  in; 
Who,  by  the  hand  of  France,  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother.'" 

or — 

" '  I  am  not  mad:  this  hair  I  tear  is  mine; 
My  name  is  Constance;  I  am  Geffrey's  wife; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost!'" 

"Bravo,  Bud!"  would  Molyneux  cry,  delighted. 
'Why,  if  I  was  an  actor-manager,  I'd  pay  you  any 

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salary  you  had  the  front  to  name.  Ain't  she  just  great, 
Millicent?  I  tell  you,  Miss  Ailie,  she  puts  the  blinkers 
on  Maude  Adams,  and  sends  Ellen  'way  back  in  the 
standing  room  only.  Girly,  all  you've  got  to  learn  is 
how  to  move.  You  mustn't  stand  two  minutes  in  the 
same  place  on  the  stage,  but  cross  'most  every  cue." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bud,  dubiously.  "Why  should 
folk  have  fidgets  on  a  stage  ?  They  don't  always  have 
them  in  real  life.  I'd  want  to  stand  like  a  mountain — 
you  know,  Auntie  Ailie,  the  old  hills  at  home! — and 
look  so — so — so  awful,  the  audience  would  shriek  if  I 
moved,  the  same  as  if  I  was  going  to  fall  on  them." 

"Is  that  how  you  feel?"  asked  Jim  Molyneux,  curi- 
ously surveying  her. 

"Yes,  that's  how  I  feel,"  said  Bud,  "when  I've  got  the 
zip  of  poetry  in  me.  I  feel  I'm  all  made  up  of  burning 
words  and  eyes." 

"Child,  you  are  very  young!"  said  Mrs.  Molyneux. 

"Yes,"  said  Bud,  "I  suppose  that's  it.  By-and-by 
I'll  maybe  get  to  be  like  other  people." 

Jim  Molyneux  struck  the  table  with  his  open  hand. 
"By  George!"  he  cried;  "I  wouldn't  hurry  being  like 
other  people;  that's  what  every  gol-darned  idiot  in 
England's  trying,  and  you're  right  on  the  spot  just  now 
as  you  stand.  That's  straight  talk,  nothing  but!  I 
allow  I  favor  a  bit  of  leg  movement  on  the  stage — 
generally  it's  about  the  only  life  there  is  on  it — but  a 
woman  who  can  play  with  her  head  don't  need  to  wear 
out  much  shoe-leather.  Girly — "  He  stopped  a  second, 
then  burst  out  with  the  question,  "How'd  you  like  a 
little  part  in  this  '  King  John '  ?" 

A  flame  went  over  the  countenance  of  the  girl,  and 
then  she  grew  exceedingly  pale.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Oh  Jim  Molyneux,  don't  be  so  cruel!" 

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"I  mean  it,"  he  said,  "and  I  could  fix  it,  for  they've 
got  an  Arthur  in  the  cast  who's  ill  and  bound  to  break 
down  in  a  day  or  two  if  she  had  an  understudy — and  if 
I—  Think  you  could  play  a  boy's  part  ?  There  isn't 
much  to  learn  in  Arthur,  but  that  little  speech  of  yours 
in  front  of  Angiers  makes  me  think  you  could  make  the 
part  loom  out  enough  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  cognoscenti. 
You'd  let  her,  wouldn't  you,  Miss  Ailie  ?  It  'd  be  great 
fun.  She  'd  learn  the  lines  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  a 
couple  of  nights  of  looking  on  would  put  her  up  to  all 
the  business.  Now  don't  kick,  Miss  Ailie;  say,  Miss 
Ailie,  have  this  little  treat  with  us!" 

Ailie's  heart  was  leaping.  Here  was  the  crisis — she 
knew  it — what  was  she  to  do  ?  She  had  long  antici- 
pated some  such  hour,  had  often  wrestled  with  the 
problem  whether,  when  it  came,  the  world  should  have 
her  Bud  without  a  struggle  for  the  claims  of  Bell  and 
the  simple  cloistered  life  of  the  Scottish  home.  While 
yet  the  crisis  was  in  prospect  only  she  could 'come  to  no 
conclusion;  her  own  wild  hungers  as  a  girl,  recalled 
one  night  in  the  light  of  kitchen  candles,  had  never 
ceased  to  plead  for  freedom — for  freedom  and  the  space 
that  herself  had  years  ago  surrendered — now  it  was  the 
voice  of  the  little  elder  sister,  and  the  bell  of  Wanton 
Wully  ringing  at  evening  humble  people  home. 

"Just  this  once!"  pleaded  Mr.  Molyneux,  understand- 
ing her  scruples.  Bud's  face  mutely  pleaded.  * 

Yes,  "just  this  once!" — it  was  all  very  well,  but  Ailie 
knew  the  dangers  of  beginnings.  It  would  not  even  be, 
in  this  case,  a  beginning;  the  beginning  was  years  ago 
— before  the  mimicry  on  the  first  New  Year's  morn- 
ing, before  the  night  of  the  dozen  candles  or  the  crea- 
tion of  The  Macintosh;  the  child  had  been  carried  on- 
ward like  a  feather  in  a  stream. 

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"I  really  don't  mind  much  myself,"  said  Ailie  at 
last,  "but  I  fancy  her  aunt  Bell  would  scarcely  like  it." 

"Not  if  she  knew  I  was  going  to  do  it,"  said  Lennox, 
quickly;  "but  when  the  thing  was  over  she'd  be  as 
pleased  as  Punch — at  least  she'd  laugh  the  way  she  did 
when  we  told  her  I  was  dressed  as  Grandma  Buntain 
at  the  ball." 

The  sound  of  Will  Oliver's  curfew  died  low  in  Ailie's 
mind,  the  countenance  of  Bell  grew  dim;  she  heard, 
instead,  the  clear  young  voice  of  Bud  among  the  scenery 
and  sat  with  an  enraptured  audience.  "If  you  are  all 
so  anxious  for  it,  then — "  she  said,  and  the  deed  was 
done ! 

She  did  not  rue  it  when  the  night  of  Bud's  per- 
formance came,  and  her  niece  as  the  hapless  young 
Bretagne  welcomed  the  dauphin  before  the  city  gates; 
she  gloried  in  the  natural  poignancy  that  marked  the 
painful  scene  with  Hubert  come  to  torture,  but  she  al- 
most rued  it  when  Molyneux,  having  escorted  them 
in  an  inexplicable  silence  home,  broke  out  at  last  in 
fervent  praise  of  his  discovery  as  soon  as  the  girl  had 
left  them  for  her  bed. 

"I've  kept  clutch  of  myself  with  considerable  dif- 
ficulty," he  said,  "for  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  girly's  sleep 
or  swell  her  head,  but  I  want  to  tell  you,  Millicent,  and 
you,  Miss  Ailie,  that  I'VE  FOUND  MY  STAR!  Why,  say, 
she's  out  of  sight!  She  was  the  only  actor  in  all  that 
company  to-night  who  didn't  know  she  was  in  Camber- 
well;  she  was  right  in  the  middle  of  mediaeval  France 
from  start  to  finish,  and  when  she  was  picked  up  dead  at 
the  end  of  the  fourth  act  she  was  so  stone-cold  and  stiff 
with  thinking  it  she  scared  the  company.  I  suspect, 
Miss  Ailie,  that  you're  going  to  lose  that  girl!" 

• 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  was  a  wet  night  in  November.  With  a  chuckle  of 
horse's  hoofs  on  shining  streets,  Dan  Dyce,  with  Bell 
and  Ailie,  drove  from  Molyneux's  fine  new  home  to  the 
temple  of  his  former  dreams  —  the  proud  Imperial. 
They  sat  in  silence  in  the  darkness  of  the  cab,  and  in 
silence  drifted  into  the  entrance  hall  of  the  theatre  to 
mingle  with  the  pompous  world  incongruously — with 
loud,  vainglorious  men,  who  bore  to  the  eye  of  Bell 
some  spirit  of  abandonment  and  mockery,  with  women 
lovely  by  the  gift  of  God,  or  with  dead-white  faces, 
wax-red  lips,  and  stealthy,  sidelong  eyes.  One  there 
was  who,  passing  before  them,  released  a  great  fur 
cloak  from  her  shoulders  with  a  sudden  movement,  and, 
as  it  slowly  slipped  down  her  marble  back,  threatened 
an  utter  nakedness  that  made  Bell  gasp  and  clutch  at 
her  sister's  arm. 

"Look!"  said  Ailie,  eagerly.  Before  them  was  a 
portrait  of  a  woman  in  the  dress  of  Desdemona.  The 
face  had  some  suggestion  that  at  times  it  might  be 
childlike  and  serene,  but  had  been  caught  in  a  moment 
of  alarm  and  fire,  and  the  full  black  eyes  held  in  their 
orbs  some  frightful  apprehension,  the  slightly  parted 
lips  expressed  a  soul's  mute  cry. 

"What  is  it  ?  Who  is  it  ?"  asked  Bell,  pausing  before 
the  picture  with  a  stound  of  fear. 

"  It  is  Bud,"  said  Ailie,  feeling  proud  and  sorrowful — 
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for  why  she  could  not  tell.  "There  is  the  name — 
'Winifred  Wallace.'" 

Bell  wrung  her  hands  in  the  shelter  of  her  mantle  and 
stood  bewildered,  searching  for  the  well-known  linea- 
ments. 

"Let  us  go  up,"  said  Dan,  softly,  with  no  heed  for 
the  jostling  people,  forever  self-possessed,  sorrowful  to 
guess  at  his  sister's  mind. 

"Yes,  yes;  let  us  go  up  out  of  this  crowd,"  said  Ailie, 
but  the  little  woman  hung  before  the  portrait  fascinated. 
Round  her  washed  the  waves  of  rustling  garments  like 
a  surf  on  the  shore  at  home;  scents  wafted;  English 
voices,  almost  foreign  in  their  accent,  fell  upon  her  ear 
all  unnoticed  since  she  faced  the  sudden  revelation  of 
what  her  brother's  child,  her  darling,  had  become. 
Seekers  'of  pleasure,  killers  of  wholesome  cares,  froth 
of  the  idle  world  eddied  around  her  chattering,  laughing, 
glancing  -curious  or  contemptuous  at  her  gray,  sweet 
face,  her  homely  form,  her  simple  Sabbath  garments; 
all  her  heart  cried  out  in  supplication  for  the  child  that 
had  too  soon  become  a  woman  and  wandered  from  the 
sanctuary  of  home. 

"We  are  blocking  the  way  here,  Bell.  Let  us  go  up," 
again  said  Ailie,  gently  taking  her  arm. 

"Yes,"  said  her  brother.  "It's  not  a  time  for  con- 
templation of  the  tombs;  it's  not  the  kirkyard,  Bell. 
You  see  there  are  many  that  are  anxious  to  get  in." 

"Oh,  Lennox,  Lennox!"  she  exclaimed,  indifferent 
to  the  strangers  round  about  her,  "my  brother's  child! 
I  wish — oh,  I  wish  ye  were  at  home!  God  grant  ye 
grace  and  wisdom — 'then  shalt  thou  walk  in  thy  way 
safely,  and  thy  foot  shall  not  stumble.  When  thou 
liest  down  thou  shalt  not  be  afraid ;  yea,  thou  shalt  lie 
down  and  thy  sleep  shall  be  sweet.'" 


BUD 

They  went  up  to  the  box  that  Molyneux  had  kept  for 
them,  to  find  his  wife  there  nursing  an  enormous 
bouquet  of  flowers,  all  white  as  the  driven  snow.  "A 
gorgeous  house!"  she  told  them.  "Everybody  that's 
anybody,  and  in  the  front  push.  Half  a  hundred  crit- 
ics, two  real  Count  Vons,  a  lot  of  benzine-brougham 
people  who  never  miss  a  first  night.  There  are  their 
wives,  poor  dears!  shining  same  as  they  were  Tiffany's 
windows.  My!  ain't  our  Bud  going  to  have  a  happy 
night!" 

They  sat  and  looked  for  a  while  in  silence  at  the 
scene  before  them,  so  pleasing  to  the  mind  that  sought 
in  crowds,  in  light  and  warmth  and  gayety,  its  happiest 
associations,  so  wanting  in  the  great  eternal  calm  and 
harmony  that  are  out-of-doors  in  country  places.  Ser- 
pent eyes  in  facets  of  gems  on  women's  bosoms ;  heads 
made  monstrous  yet  someway  beautiful  and  tempting 
by  the  barber's  art;  shoulders  bare  and  bleached,  de- 
void of  lustre;  others  blushing  as  if  Eve's  sudden  ap- 
prehension had  survived  the  generations.  Sleek,  shaven 
faces,  linen  breastplates,  opera-glasses,  flowers,  fans,  a 
murmur  of  voices,  and  the  flame  over  all  of  the  enor- 
mous electrolier. 

It  was  the  first  time  Bell  had  seen  a  theatre.  Her 
first  thought  was  one  of  blame  and  pity.  " '  He  looked 
on  the  city  and  wept'!"  said  she.  "Oh,  Ailie,  that  it 
were  over  and  we  were  home!" 

"All  to  see  Miss  Winifred  Wallace!"  said  Mrs. 
Molyneux.  "Think  of  that,  Miss  Dyce — your  darling 
niece,  and  she'll  be  so  proud  and  happy!" 

Bell  sighed.  "At  least  she  had  got  her  own  way, 
and  I  am  a  foolish  old  countrywoman  who  had  dif- 
ferent plans." 

Dan  said  nothing.  Ailie  waited,  too,  silent,  in  a 
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feverish  expectation,  and  from  the  fiddles  rose  a  sudden 
melody.  It  seemed  the  only  wise  and  sober  thing  in 
all  that  humming  hive  of  gaudy  insects  passing,  passing, 
passing.  It  gave  a  voice  to  human  longings  for  a  nobler, 
better  world;  and  in  it,  too,  were  memory  and  tears. 
To  the  people  in  the  box  it  seemed  to  tell  Bud's  story — 
opening  in  calm,  sweet  passages,  closing  in  the  roll  of 
trumpet  and  the  throb  of  drum.  And  then  the  lights 
went  down  and  the  curtain  rose  upon  the  street  in 
Venice. 

The  early  scenes  were  dumb  and  vacant,  wanting 
Bud's  presence ;  there  was  no  play  for  them  till  she  came 
slowly  into  the  council  chamber  where  sat  the  senators, 
timidity  and  courage  struggling  in  her  port  and  visage. 

"No,  no;  it  is  not  Bud,"  Bell  whispered.  "It  is  not 
our  lassie;  this  one  is  too  tall  and — and  too  deliberate. 
I  fear  she  has  not  dared  it  at  the  last,  or  that  she  has 
been  found  unsuitable." 

Ailie  leaned  forward,  quivering,  feeding  her  eyes. 
"It's  no  one  else,"  said  she.  "Dear  Bud,  our  Bud! 
Those  two  years'  training  may  have  made  her  some- 
ways  different,  but  she  has  not  changed  her  smile. 
Oh,  I  am  so  proud,  and  sure  of  her!  Hus-s-sh!" 

"  ' .  .  .  I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty; 
To  you  I  am  bound  for  life  and  education, 
My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty, 
I  am  hitherto  your  daughter:  but  here's  my  husband.'" 

Desdemona's  first  speech  broke  the  stillness  that  had 
fallen  on  the  house;  her  face  was  pale,  they  saw  the 
rapid  heaving  of  her  bosom,  they  heard  a  moment's 
tremor  in  her  voice  matured  and  wonderful,  sweet  as  a 
silver  bell.  To  the  box  where  she  knew  her  friends 

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were  sitting  she  let  her  eyes  for  a  second  wander  as 
she  spoke  the  opening  lines  that  had  so  much  of  double 
meaning — not  Desdemona,  but  the  loving  and  wilful 
child  asking  forgiveness,  yet  tenacious  of  her  purpose. 

To  Ailie  came  relief  and  happiness  and  pride;  Dan 
held  a  watching  brief  for  his  elder  sister's  prejudices 
and  his  own  philosophy.  Bell  sat  in  tears  which  Shake- 
speare did  not  influence.  When  next  she  saw  the  stage 
with  unblurred  eyes  Desdemona  was  leaving  with  the 
Moor. 

"My  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Molyneux,  "as  Desdemona 
she's  the  Only  One!  and  Jim  was  right.  It's  worth  a 
thousand  times  more  trouble  than  he  took  with  her. 
He  said  all  along  she'd  dazzle  them,  and  I  guess  her 
fortune's  made,  and  it's  going  to  be  the  making  of  this 
house,  too.  I  feel  so  proud  and  happy  I'd  kiss  you  right 
here,  Mr.  Dyce,  if  it  wouldn't  mess  up  my  bouquet." 

"A  black  man!"  said  Bell,  regretfully.  "I  know  it  is 
only  paint,  of  course,  but — but  I  never  met  him;  I  do 
not  even  know  his  name." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  play  had  nothing  in  it  but  the 
words  and  acts  of  Desdemona.  At  each  appearance 
she  became  more  confident,  charged  the  part  with 
deeper  feeling,  found  new  meaning  in  the  time-worn 
words.  Even  Bell  began  to  lose  her  private  judgment, 
forget  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  sinful  play,  and  feel 
some  pity  for  Othello;  but,  as  the  knavish  coils  closed 
round  her  Desdemona,  the  strain  became  unbearable. 

"Oh!  I  cannot  stand  it  any  longer,"  she  exclaimed, 
•when  the  voice  of  Lennox  quavered  in  the  song  befcre 
her  last  good-night,  and,  saying  so,  pushed  back  her 
seat  into  the  shadows  of  the  box,  covering  her  ears  with 
her  fingers.  She  saw  no  more;  she  heard  no  more  till 
the  audience  rose  to  its  feet  with  thunders  of  applause 

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that  swelled  and  sank  and  swelled  again  as  if  it  would 
never  end.  Then  she  dared  to  look,  and  saw  a  trem- 
bling Desdemona  all  alone  before  a  curtain  bowing. 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  is  the  matter?  Why 
are  they  crying  that  way  on  her?"  she  asked,  dum- 
founded. 

"Why,  don't  you  see  they're  mad!"  said  Mrs.  Moly- 
neux. 

"Oh,  dear!  and  I  thought  she  was  doing  splendidly." 

"Glad  mad,  I  mean.  She  has  carried  them  off  their 
feet,  and  I'll  bet  Jim  Molyneux  is  standing  on  his  hands 
behind  that  drop  and  waving  his  legs  in  the  air.  Guess 
I  needn't  waste  this  bouquet  on  a  girl  who  looks  like 
the  morning  hour  in  Co  vent  Garden." 

Molyneux  burst  into  the  box  in  a  gust  of  wild  excite- 
ment. "Come  round,  come  round  at  once,  she  wants 
to  see  you,"  he  exclaimed,  and  led  them  deviously  be- 
hind the  scenes  to  her  dressing-room. 

She  stood  at  the  door,  softly  crying;  she  looked  at 
them — the  grave  old  uncle,  Ailie  who  could  understand, 
the  little  Auntie  Bell — it  was  into  the  arms  of  Bell  she 
threw  herself! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

talk  of  the  whole  of  London!  The  beauteous 
Lady  Anne  herself 's  not  in  it  with  her!"  said  Will 
Oliver,  scratching  behind  his  ears.  "Man,  is  it  no'  just 
desperate?  But  I'll  warrant  ye  there's  money  in  it, 
for  it's  yonder  folk  are  willing  to  pay  well  for  their 
diversion." 

"Are  you  sure,"  said  P.  &  A.,  "it's  not  another 
woman  altogether?  It  gives  the  name  of  Wallace  in 
the  paper." 

The  bellman,  sitting  on  a  soap-box,  slapped  his  thigh 
and  said:  "I'm  telling  ye;  I  had  it  long  ago  from  Kate 
MacNeill  that  her  name  on  the  stage  was  going  to  be 
Wallace — Winifred  Wallace — and  there  it  is  in  print. 
Tra — tragedienny,  tragediennys  are  the  head  ones  in 
the  trade;  I've  seen  them  in  the  shows — tr-r-r-emen- 
dous  women!" 

The  Provost,  who  had  just  stepped  in  to  P.  &  A.'s  for 
his  Sunday  sweeties,  smiled  tolerantly  and  passed  his 
taddy-box.  "Bud  Dyce,"  said  he,  "is  never  likely  to 
be  round  this  way  in  a  caravan  to  do  the  deid-drap 
three  times  every  night  for  front-seats  sixpence.  I 
doubt  we  have  seen  the  last  of  her  unless  we  have  the 
money  and  the  clothes  for  London  theatres." 

"It's  really  her,  then?"  said  the  grocer. 

"You  can  take  Wull's  word  for  that,"  said  the  Prov- 
ost, "and  I  have  just  been  talking  to  her  uncle.  Her 

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history's  in  the  morning  paper,  and  I'm  the  civic  head 
of  a  town  renowned  for  genius." 

Wanton  Wully  went  out  to  drift  along  the  street  in  the 
light  of  the  bright  shop  windows  before  which  bairns 
played  "chaps  me,"  making  choice  of  treasures  for  their 
gaudiness  alone,  like  most  of  us,  who  should  know 
better.  He  met  George  Jordon.  "Geordie,"  said  he, 
"you'll  have  heard  the  latest?  You  should  be  in  Lon- 
don; yon's  the  place  for  oddity,"  and  George,  with 
misty  comprehension,  turned  about  for  the  road  to 
London  town.  Out  of  the  inn  came  Colin  Cleland, 
hurried,  in  his  hand  the  business-looking  packet  of 
tattered  documents  that  were  always  his  excuse  for 
being  there. 

' '  Winifred  Wallace — Great  Tragedienny !  It's  a  droll 
thing  life,  according  to  the  way  you  look  at  it.  Stir- 
ring times  in  London,  Mr.  Cleland!  Changed  her  name 
to  Wallace,  having  come  of  decent  worthy,  people.  We 
know,  but  we'll  not  let  on." 

"Not  a  word!"  said  Colin  Cleland,  comically.  "Per- 
haps she  may  get  better  and  the  thing  blow  by.  Are 
you  under  the  impression  that  celebrity's  a  thing  to  be 
ashamed  of?  I  tell  you  she's  a  credit  to  us  all." 

"Lord  bless  me!  do  you  say  so?"  asked  Wull  Oliver. 
"If  I  was  a  tragedienny  I  would  be  ashamed  to  show 
my  face  in  the  place  again.  We  all  expected  some- 
thing better  from  the  wee  one — she  was  such  a  caution ! 
It  was  myself,  as  you  might  say,  invented  her;  I  gave 
her  a  start  at  devilment  by  letting  her  ring  the  New 
Year  bell.  After  that  she  always  called  me  Mr. 
Wanton,  and  kindly  inquired  at  me  about  my  legs. 
She  was  always  quite  the  leddy." 

Miss  Minto's  shop  was  busy:  a  boy  was  in  with  a  very 
red  face  demanding  the  remnants  that  by  rights  should 


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have  gone  home  with  his  mother's  jacket,  and  the 
Misses  Duff  were  buying  chiffon. 

"This  is  startling  news  about  young  Lennox  Dyce," 
remarked  Miss  Minto.  "It's  caused  what  you  might 
call  a  stir.  There's  not  a  weekly  paper  to  be  had  for 
love  or  money." 

"She  was  always  most  peculiar,"  said  Miss  Jean. 

"Bizarre,"  cooed  Miss  Amelia  —  it  was  her  latest 
adjective. 

"I  was  sure  there  was  something  special  about  in  her 
since  the  very  first  day  I  saw  her,"  said  the  mantua- 
maker.  "Yon  eye,  Miss  Duff!  And  what  a  sweet  and 
confident  expression!  I  am  so  glad  she  has  pleased 
them  up  in  London;  you  never  can  depend  on  them. 
I  am  thinking  of  a  novel  blouse  to  mark  in  what  I 
think  will  be  a  pleasing  way  the  great  occasion — the 
Winifred  Wallace  Waist  I'm  calling  it.  You  remember 
the  clever  Mr.  Molyneux." 

"I  doubt  we  never  understood  her,"  said  Miss  Jean. 
"But  we  make  a  feature  now  of  elocution." 

"Not  that  we  wish  to  turn  out  great  tragediennes," 
said  Miss  Amelia.  "There's  happiness  in  humbler  vo- 
cations." 

"I  dare  say  there  is,"  confessed  Miss  Minto.  "I 
never  thought  of  the  stage  myself;  my  gift  was  always 
dress-making,  and  you  wouldn't  believe  the  satisfac- 
tion that's  in  seeing  a  dress  of  mine  on  a  woman  who 
can  do  it  justice.  We  have  all  our  own  bit  art,  and 
that's  a  wonderful  consolation.  But  I'm  very  glad  at 
that  girl's  progress,  for  the  sake  of  Mr.  Dyce — and,  of 
course,  his  sisters.  Miss  Ailie  is  transported,  in  the 
seventh  heaven,  and  even  her  sister  seems  quite  pleased. 
'You'll  have  a  high  head  to-day,'  I  said  to  her  when  she 
was  passing  from  the  coach  this  afternoon." 


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"And  what  did  she  say  to  that  ?"  inquired  Miss  Jean, 
with  curiosity. 

"You  know  Miss  Dyce!  She  gave  a  smile  and  said, 
'But  a  humble  heart;  it's  the  Dyces'  motto.'"  • 

The  doctor  put  his  paper  down,  having  read  the  great 
news  over  several  times  with  a  singular  satisfaction 
that  surprised  his  sisters,  who  were  beat  to  see  much 
glory  in  a  state  of  life  that  meant  your  name  on  every 
wall  and  the  picture  of  your  drawing-room  every  other 
week  in  'Homely  Notes.'  Drawing  on  his  boots,  he 
took  a  turn  the  length  of  the  lawyer's  house. 

"Faith!  London  has  the  luck  of  it,"  he  said,  on 
entering.  "I  wish  I  was  there  myself  to  see  this  won- 
derful Desdemona.  I  hope  you  liked  your  jaunt, 
Miss  Bell?" 

"It  wasn't  bad,"  said  Bell,  putting  out  the  cards. 
"But,  mercy  on  me,  what  a  silly  way  they  have  of 
baking  bread  in  England! — all  crust  outside,  though  I 
grant  it's  sweet  enough  when  you  break  into  it." 

"H'm!"  said  Dr.  Brash,  "I've  seen  Scotch  folk  a  bit 
like  that.  She  has  rung  the  bell,  I  see;  her  name  is 
made." 

"It  is,  they  tell  me,"  answered  Bell,  "but  I  hope  it 
will  never  change  her  nature." 

"She  had  aye  a  genius,"  said  Mr.  Dyce,  cutting  the 
pack  for  partners. 

"She  had  something  better,"  said  Miss  Ailie,  "she 
had  love";  and  on  the  town  broke  forth  the  evening 
bell. 


THE    END 


A     000110638     4 


